This Is What Parenting With a Wrecking Ball Feels Like:

Real, Raw, and a Little Bit Clinical (Because I’m Both)

Let’s drop the mask for a second. Holidays are hell for families like mine. It’s all Instagram-tableaus and new pajamas for most people, but for us? For the ones whose table feels less like a Norman Rockwell painting and more like a police report waiting to happen, it’s white-knuckle season.

People love to say, “Kids need both parents.” That line is for people who have never seen both of their “parents” in a police cruiser.

The Parent in Me: Standing in the Fire

So, here’s how it goes. Thanksgiving, and I reach out. Not for me—Jesus, no—but so I can tell my boys I tried. So I can silence that leftover guilt. No answer, of course. The next day, my phone lights up. Him, as if nothing happened, as if months of silence and one walk-out at the lake never happened: “How are the boys?”

I want to scream. I want to drive to his house and bang on the door and make him see what he’s missing. But all I do is say, “No. Not happening. Not until you can face this family. Not until you can look those boys in the eye.” The kind of boundaries I never saw growing up, the kind I learned by getting burned.

He gets resentful, I get resentful. He tries to reverse it: “You’re keeping them from me.” As if it’s my hands doing the erasing, not his choices, his running, his cowardice. I end the call, and yeah, I know I should be calm, but the texts come anyway. Nuclear honesty. Fury in my thumbs.

The Worker in Me: What I Know Now

Here’s where the professional side of me weighs in: The cycle is textbook. For survivors, everything’s cyclical. For people struggling with addiction—and violent histories—it’s even more so. It’s called the Drama Triangle. Perpetrator, victim, rescuer. Round and round. I’m not just living it; I’ve taught it to clients a hundred times. I see myself flipping between “rescuer” (sure, I’ll try one more time) and “persecutor” (no, you can’t talk to them, not after what you did).

Addiction isn’t just about substance. It’s about running from pain, dodging truth, finding a scapegoat. Every time he blames me, he’s protecting himself from the truth he’s never been able to face. I know this because decades ago, I did it too—different story, same dance.

In the field we call this “high-conflict co-parenting.” We give worksheets on boundaries. We write careful scripts for how to respond: “Stick to logistics. Avoid emotional language.” But when it’s your own children, your own trauma, none of that feels possible. Half the time, the “correct” response feels like swallowing acid.

The Parent in Me: What You Don’t See

People only see the outside. The custody fights, the police reports, the bruises that finally faded. They don’t see the late-night panic. The holidays where you smile for the kids but want to gouge your eyes out with the loneliness. They don’t see my current husband—a man who’s weathered six years beside me, stepped in because love in our house means never, ever walking away. We got married not to “fix” the family, but to finally give my boys a last name attached to safety, stability, and real, living proof you can do better.

Now, as we walk into court for step-parent adoption, I carry all of it. Not because I’m ending their relationship with their biological father—I wish he could be there, truly there—but because kids need security. Even if it means drawing a cruel legal boundary around someone who’s drawn emotional boundaries with disappearances, violence, and lies.

The Worker in Me: Advice That Actually Counts

Let me tell you what I tell clients—not the watered-down, liability-safe stuff, the real shit:

• Boundaries are not about revenge. They’re not even about “teaching a lesson.” They are about protecting what is good and possible in you and your kids.

• Anger is an alarm, not a character flaw. Anger that saves your kid from trauma is righteous, and don’t let anyone—least of all an abuser or an addict—convince you otherwise.

• If you get pulled into repeating yourself, shouting into the void, or unleashing a paragraph you swear you’ll regret, you’re not failing. You’re grieving. You’re bleeding out so your kids don’t have to.

I wish I could say “try this script” or “journal your feelings” would fix it. Most days, I just hope my boys know I tried harder than anyone should have to.

Both Sides: The Mess and the Map

I lost count of the number of times I’ve told a desperate mom or dad across my desk, “You can’t change them. The only life you can save is yours—and your kids’.” And then I go home and forget to follow my own advice. That’s real. You never get cured of this mess; you just get a little braver, a little less tolerant of your own self-soothing lies.

And still, every phone call, every email, every missed visit, rips open that old ache: “Am I doing enough? Am I ruining them? Will they look back and hate me for trying to keep them safe?” I know those questions will never leave. Professional me can recite the data on resilience and trauma healing and all of that. But it’s the parent in me who’s still in the ring every single day.

To Anyone Living This Right Now

You’re not alone. If you feel stuck in fury and grief and guilt, congratulations: you’re human. If you’ve found yourself cussing in the kitchen or sobbing in the minivan, you’re doing exactly what you should—letting your feelings breathe, not shoving them into little boxes for the professionals to diagnose later.

Don’t buy the myth that “being civil” is always possible. Sometimes protecting your kids means pissing people off, losing friends, or having your ex try to paint you as the monster. The ones who know you—the ones who matter—see through that.

And if you happen to work in this field too? If you’ve clawed your way out and ended up counseling people through the wreckage you survived? You, too, are allowed to be a goddamn mess some days. Knowing the theory doesn’t make the holidays less hard. It just means you have names for all the damage, and a little more hope for what comes after.

One More Time, For the People in Back

It doesn’t matter if your best looks like a bloody knuckle and a crumpled court summons, or a brand-new start and clean bills of health. If you’re still standing, loving, showing up—you’re winning. You’re breaking cycles with every furious, exhausted breath. That is what matters.

When the next call comes, when you’re tempted to fire off a string of cuss words or swallow your rage instead, know this: your mistakes don’t define you. Your strength isn’t measured by your chill, but by your refusal to accept “just another day” in the war zone when you could have walked away.

This isn’t a story with a bow on top. It’s the messy, real, unfinished truth. And you, reading this? You’re allowed to be angry, heartbroken, hopeful, and human—all at the same damn time.

From both sides of the desk: I see you, I am you, and you’re not alone.