"Take A Deep Breath Mommy"

written by Marial Leisge

photo by Created Coastal Photography

I’m not bragging when I say this—my son rarely has meltdowns.

They happen sometimes, sure. Mostly when he’s overtired. When there’s resistance around everyday things like brushing teeth before bed. Normal. But more often than not, he doesn’t erupt. He retreats.

Instead of loud expressions, he internalizes his sadness. And there are moments—many of them—where I find myself wishing for the meltdown over the stillness. Because the “not knowing” is what breaks me.

Not knowing what’s moving through his complex mind. Not knowing where his sadness goes when it doesn’t come out. Not knowing what he’s carrying quietly, alone.

My son has always been incredibly attuned to the people around him. He reads energy the way some kids read books. He notices tone shifts, facial changes, emotional undercurrents. He understands—far beyond his years—that pain looks different on everyone. 

That reactions don’t always match feelings. That some emotions are welcomed more easily than others. “Take a deep breath Mommy”, he will say far too often then I want to admit. 

It might sound strange to say that about a 4-year old boy, but here’s why I believe it.

This past weekend, we decided it was time for my son to stop drinking from a milk bottle. It felt small to me, at the moment. Practical. A natural next step.Before bed, we explained it gently. That he wasn’t a baby anymore. That he was a boy now. And little boys drink milk from cups. We handed him a sippy cup and waited.

His eyebrows pulled upward. His lower lip softened and pushed forward. His whole face held sadness—but it never broke open.

Instead of crying. Instead of protesting. Instead of asking why. He rolled onto his side, turned away from me, and quietly fell asleep. No sound. No fight. Just… silence. This kind of reaction has become familiar. And while, from the outside, it can look like resilience or adaptability—or even “good behavior”—I know better.

Because to me, it’s no big deal. But to him, I know it’s more. 

It’s the same feeling I see when the pool is unexpectedly closed. When my disappointment doesn’t match the surge rising in his body. When the world delivers a ‘no’ that feels enormous inside him, but ordinary to everyone else.

So he swallows it. He holds it in. And as his mother, that hurts more than any tantrum ever could. Because I don’t want him to believe that his feelings are only valid when they make sense to others. I don’t want him to think he has to quiet himself when his emotions feel “too big,” “too much,” or inconvenient.

I want the feelings to come out—messy, loud, imperfect—so I can sit with him in them. So I can show him that sadness doesn’t need to be hidden. That disappointment doesn’t need to be minimized. That grief, frustration, and loss—no matter how small they seem to adults—deserve space.

I don’t want to fix his emotions. I want to make room for them. Because one day, the bottle won’t matter. The closed pool won’t matter. The small moments will fade. But what will matter is whether he knows—deep in his body and bones—that there is a place where all of him is welcome.

A place where his quiet sadness can speak. A place where emotions don’t have to earn their volume to be heard. A place where he doesn’t have to carry things alone. And maybe that’s the real work of motherhood—not teaching our children how to stay composed, but teaching them that being messy is always the way to go.