When Everyone Is Triggered

Increasing Our Capacity for Meeting the Present Moment

Inspired by Key Assumptions and Intentions of NVC, this piece refers to the intention to Increase Our Capacity for Meeting the Present Moment.

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Last Saturday morning contained one of the more difficult moments of my recent parenting journey.

Context: I have just begun a drug trial. The day before, I had returned from three days away as part of this trial, when I had started the drugs. Upon my return I had immediately collapsed in bed, and then within a few minutes, kiddos were upset with each other and I recognized that in that moment, I had the capacity to “share my calm”, so up I got. (Matt was outside saying goodbye to a neighbor and putting away our freeloader ducks.)

Also, my daughter, six, has developed a hypersensitivity to my lying down. It began last year when I was on chemo and is still very much present.

So, Saturday morning. Things had been the normal level of chaos, but had calmed down. We are fairly chill. Kiddos are quiet. They are listening to Harry Potter and the Something of Something audiobook, and daughter is building legos, or a “home”, think furniture circle and sleeping bags.

I am exhausted, in my body, in my mind, emotionally. I oh-so-casually rise from the kitchen table and saunter past them into the bedroom, where I collapse on the bed. Less than ten seconds later my daughter is crying on me, half screaming at me to get up.

I become triggered. Or maybe I don't. I recognize it, I can see it coming and am scared. Visions of me hurting my daughter to shock her into shutting up are swimming in my mind. After confirming that she is not going to leave, I tell her I am going to be as gentle as possible and then really gently picked her up under her armpits. In this moment I am quite impressed with the level of self control I have. She begins to tell me what she always says, you’re hurting me, but for some reason stops. I gently place her outside the door, slam it shut and lock it. I collapse back on the bed as she begins kicking the door. The doors are cheap and can’t stand much kicking, even from a six year old. I get triggered again, and yell at her to stop. She does, and I hear her shut herself in the pantry and cry.

I cry too, on my bed, not at all getting the peace and rest I need. Not able to mourn the loss of my recent wellness, the unstoppable one-way momentum this cancer is creating, feeling like such a fraud. How can someone who advocates for respectful parenting have visions of hurting their child float in their head? (Now I’m calm, I understand.)

In that moment I recognize that I have a choice here, and I am the only one with the power and capacity. And (this is the powerful part) I remember that my needs not being met is temporary. I have total trust that at some point later in the day, my needs for peace and space and rest will be met. And it’s that trust that allows me to open my heart and see my daughter. She’s struggling!

Of course, of course, my little girl is struggling. How could she not be? She is needing companionship and reassurance that I am okay and can be there for her. And she just got confirmation that I am not there for her. She’s afraid and alone. She can’t see my needs in this moment of fear, overwhelm and upset. Sheesh!

This trust that my needs will be met, combines with my ability to see her in this moment. And in spite of desperately needing space and peace and rest, I get up, out of bed, click on the kettle, and move to the kitchen table where I sit down to color.

Why don’t I approach my daughter? Because I know her and know that it would be too much for her in the pantry. Sitting at the table and taking out the box of colored pencils is my invitation to her to join me. I know she knows this.

After a few minutes she stomps over to the chair next to mine, slams her coloring book on the table, harrumphs down into her chair, and in the snottiest voice she can muster says, “Sorry I was so mean to you,” and begins coloring.

My heart explodes with love at this unexpected, unsolicited gift. A first apology from her, in all it’s six-year-old authenticity. I quietly reply, “Thank you, my love.”

Why is this different from unhealthy, high self-sacrificial, codependency?

1. I hold all the power.
2. I am aware of my needs, and am holding them. I know they will be met - they were met. I had the capacity to put them on hold in the moment, not for ever. And from this I am choosing to connect with my daughter, not from guilt or obligation.

When we trust that our needs will be met, we have a bigger capacity for meeting the present moment even if our needs are currently unmet. Without dropping ourselves and our mattering, we can create space to meet others who have less capacity than we have, where they’re at.