This morning I almost became the kind of father I promised I would never be.

Not because my son did something terrible. Not because he “deserved” it.
But because a red traffic light happened at the wrong time… and my mind was already a war zone.

I’m 38, office job, nothing special. If you saw me in traffic, you’d think: “Just another tired dad.”
But today, sitting in that car, I felt like a bomb someone forgot to defuse.

The day started wrong before the sun was even up.

My wife woke me with, “Did you pay the electricity bill or not? They texted me AGAIN.”
My phone was buzzing with a message from my boss: “Need that report by 9. URGENT.”
My mom called just to remind me she’s “getting old and nobody cares”.

I hadn’t even brushed my teeth and already felt like a failure as a husband, employee, and son.

Then my 6-year-old climbed into the car with his backpack half open, shoes on the wrong feet, singing some nonsense cartoon song on repeat.
Normally I’d laugh. Today, the sound went straight into my skull like a drill.

We pulled out into heavy traffic. Cars everywhere. Horns. Heat.
My head was full of thoughts hitting like waves:

“I’m late.”
“I’m broke.”
“I can’t do anything right.”
“Nobody respects me.”

Then it happened.

My son squeezed his juice box too hard. Sticky orange liquid exploded all over the back seat I’d just cleaned on Sunday. He gasped, eyes wide, then giggled like it was a funny accident.

Something inside me snapped.

My chest tightened, ears ringing.
I slammed the brakes at a red light, turned around, and my hand just… went up.

You know that moment when your body moves faster than your brain?
That was it.
I saw my own knuckles, veins popping, shaking in the air.

My son froze. His smile disappeared like someone turned off a light. His little body shrank back into the seat, eyes filling with pure fear.

And in that exact second, a random sentence I’d heard in a mindfulness video weeks ago crashed into my head:

“Don’t say ‘I am angry.’ Just see, ‘Anger is arising in the mind.’”

I don’t know why my brain grabbed that line, of all things.
But it did.

Time suddenly slowed down.
I kept my hand in the air… but I didn’t let it fall.

Instead, I just looked at him. Really looked.
Not at the mess. Not at the juice. Not at the stain on the seat.
At my son.
His wet eyes. His shaking lip. His small hands still holding that stupid juice box.

Inside my chest, everything was on fire, and at the same time another part of me whispered:

“This is anger. This is not you. This is just a wave.”

I actually said it in my head like a crazy person:

“Anger is here. Anger is here. Just watch it.”

My heart was racing so hard I could hear it. I took one breath. Then another.
With each breath, the heat dialed down just a little bit.

The traffic outside hadn’t moved. The light was still red.
The bills were still unpaid.
My boss was still waiting.
The seat was still ruined.

But inside, something shifted.
The raging “I’ll show you who’s in charge” became “I’m just really, really tired.”

I lowered my hand. The guilt hit harder than the anger.

“Hey,” I said softly, voice shaking, “Dad is angry… but it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I scared you.”

He stared at me for a second, still breathing fast. Then he gave a tiny nod.
And just like that, the fear in his eyes softened. He went back to sucking on the juice box, still sniffing, and quietly resumed his weird little song.

Same kid. Same car. Same mess.
But that moment could have turned into a completely different story.

A slap.
A scream.
A memory he would carry for years.
Another chapter in the book called “I’m not safe with my dad.”

Instead, it became something else: the first time I truly saw how dangerous my own mind can be.

Since then (it’s only been a few days, but still), I’ve been trying this simple thing:

Not “I’m anxious” → “Anxiety is arising.”
Not “I’m useless” → “That thought is arising.”
Not “I’m a bad father” → “Guilt is arising.”

Sometimes it works. Sometimes I still drown in the wave.
But now at least I know there is a wave… and I don’t have to become it.

I’m not sharing this for praise. I’m sharing it because it scared me how close I came to hurting the little person I love most in the world, just because I was carrying other people’s words in my head.

We talk a lot about “controlling our temper,” but maybe it’s not about control.
Maybe it’s about catching that first tiny spark before it burns down the whole house.

If you’ve ever raised your hand at your kid, your partner, or even yourself… I’m not here to judge. I get it more than I wish I did.

I just want to ask you this:

Next time the wave comes, could you try one thing with me?

Pause. One breath.
And instead of “I AM angry,” just say,
“Anger is here.”

Maybe it won’t change anything.
Or maybe, like this morning, it will change everything.

Be honest with me:
Do you believe people can really change their temper, or are we just born this way and stuck with it?
Tell me what you truly think.