I didn’t realize I was scaring my own child… until I saw his eyes in the rearview mirror.

That night, the city felt like it was trying to crush me.
Rain hammering on the windshield, endless red brake lights ahead, a meeting gone wrong still replaying in my head, messages from my boss popping up non-stop. My son was in the back seat, whining that he was hungry. My head was buzzing.

Then some guy cut into my lane without signaling.

Something inside me snapped.

I slammed my hand on the horn, leaned forward and started shouting at a stranger behind a sheet of glass he couldn’t even hear me through. Every swear word I’d promised myself I’d never say in front of my kid just flew out of my mouth.

And then I saw it.

In the rearview mirror, two huge scared eyes.
My son’s little face, frozen, his mouth slightly open, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe.

In that split second, I stopped seeing “that idiot driver” and “this stupid traffic” and “my horrible day.”

I saw me.

My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. My voice was still loud, but the anger drained out and left this heavy, ugly shame. I’d become the monster in my own car, over one car length of space and a stranger I’d never meet.

That night I barely slept.

I lay there blaming everything: this city, my stressful job, my husband who “doesn’t get it,” the bills, the deadlines. I had a whole list of reasons why I was angry and exhausted and easily triggered.

Scrolling my phone at 2 a.m., I read a line that felt like it punched me in the chest:

“You’ve been shot by a poisoned arrow. Instead of pulling it out, you keep asking who made it, why they shot you, and what kind of poison is on the tip.”

The arrow was my anger.
My obsession with being right.
My need for everything and everyone to move the way I wanted.

And instead of pulling it out, I’d been hugging it tighter every day.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t just the traffic.

At work, when a coworker got promoted, my chest burned. I didn’t see her staying late, her extra tasks, her risks. I just heard a voice in my head: “Why not me? I’m invisible. I’m never enough.”

At home, one careless sentence from my husband was enough to ruin my whole night. One forgotten chore became a full-on story in my head: “He doesn’t respect me. No one ever helps me. I do everything alone.”

Everywhere I looked, I saw villains.
I just never noticed I was busy writing the script.

That quote about the poisoned arrow wouldn’t leave me. I started reading more. I learned something that shook me: ignorance isn’t about being stupid. It’s about not seeing clearly. Not seeing that life is always changing. That people are human. That traffic jams and forgotten chores aren’t personal attacks.

Ignorance is when we scream at the rain instead of picking up an umbrella.

So I decided to try something tiny.

Next time I felt that heat rise in my chest, I would pause for just one breath and ask myself,
“Is it really them… or is it my own expectations strangling me?”

The first test came fast.

A few days later, my husband left dirty dishes in the sink again after promising he’d wash them. I felt the familiar wave: the tight jaw, the script starting in my head about how I’m the only responsible adult in this house.

My hand actually reached out to slam the plates into the sink louder… and then I remembered my son’s eyes in the mirror.

One breath.

“Is it really him… or is it the arrow again?”

I still felt annoyed. I still talked to my husband. But instead of exploding, I said, “Hey, I really need help tonight. I’m exhausted. Can you do them now?”
Not perfect. Not saintly. But my voice didn’t make my kid flinch.

Another day, my son spilled juice all over the couch right before we had to leave. Old me would have yelled: “What is wrong with you? I told you to be careful!” New me felt the anger rise… and then saw his little face freeze, waiting for impact.

Arrow.

One breath.

“Okay, it’s just juice. Help me clean it. Next time, we drink at the table, deal?” His shoulders dropped. He smiled. The whole scene dissolved in under a minute.

I’m not healed. I still snap. I still say things I regret. I still have nights where I rant in my head and blame the whole world.

But now, at least, I can see the arrow.

And I’m slowly, shakily, learning to pull it out instead of pushing it in deeper myself.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are living like this—thinking our suffering always starts with someone else: our partner, our parents, the economy, the city, “those people,” that one person who cut us off in traffic.

What if, for just one moment, we looked in our own rearview mirror?

Maybe we’d see the people we’re hurting without meaning to. Our kids. Our partners. Ourselves.

So I’m sharing this, not because I’m proud of that night in the car, but because it changed me. I realized the most dangerous place I can live is inside a story where I’m always the victim and never the one holding the arrow.

If you were my son that night, stuck in the back seat watching your mother scream at the world…
what would you want her to do?

Be honest with me. Have you ever realized you were part of your own suffering too?
Tell me your story in the comments. 🥲✨