I Become a Monster When the Leashes Tangle Up

I walk my dogs early. When it’s still dark. And there are no people. It’s one of my favorite parts of my day. 

Except for when the leashes tangle up.

Because when the leashes tangle up, my entire body tenses up. My jaw tightens. I grit my teeth. And a wave of pure, unfiltered fury sweeps across my body.

And I snap. I untangle the leashes angrily. I tell my dogs how dumb they are. And I wish I’d never started this fucking annoying walk in the first place.

That’s how fast it happens, too. Walking peacefully. Leashes tangle. Poof. Full of rage.

Sure. You might think I’m an asshole. And that’s fine. You can’t think anything about me that I haven’t already berated myself for a million times.

And yes, I’m definitely a more pleasant person to be around when my nervous system is in slow-mo.

But unfortunately for my kids and family, I didn’t know how to slow-mo my emotions until very recently.

My baby is about to turn 17. And he took the brunt of it. He and my dogs.

Only instead of tangled leashes, it was his crying that was the trigger.

He would start to cry, which with him was always a 0-100 kind of thing. It’s funny because looking back I realize I was never quite ready for it, but I lived my entire life at that time anticipating it. So while I was never ready for it, I was always ready for it.

When he cried, I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

Anyway, he’d start crying. My body would tense up. He’d feel me tighten. He’d cry louder. And so this would go on and on until he was screaming and, often, so was I.

And then, cue the crying on my end. When I’d finally get him to settle, shame would take over. And I’d berate myself. “What the fuck is wrong with me? My poor sweet baby deserves better than that. I want to do better. I need to do better. But I don’t know how. I can’t. I’m an asshole. I need help. But who? And how?”

The Realization: I’m Actually Not An Asshole

I spent the majority of my years as a mother like this. Everything is fine, something happens, I snap, and then the guilt. It literally hurt my heart every time it happened. I cried a lot. I talked a lot of trash to myself. But I just couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

I was taking meds to help regulate my emotions. I was working with a therapist. I had read nine million self-help books. I thought I was doing the work.

But knowing what’s wrong isn’t the same as fixing it. Understanding the theory doesn’t stop your body from tensing up when the leashes tangle.

That realization came the morning the rage consumed me while my kids had friends over. I lost my shit in front of kids I barely knew… who certainly went home to tell their mothers, who I also barely knew.

That morning, I promised myself and my kids that I would never rage like that again.

But promises don’t rewire brains. They just set the stage for change. To actually make sure that morning was the last time, I needed more than good intentions. I needed to figure out the WHY. I needed to figure out what was actually causing the eruptions. So I started digging into the science. And I learned what was happening in my body and brain whenever I lost my shit.

For most people, tangled leashes are just an annoyance. It happens, you untangle them, and you move on. But for me, and people with nervous systems like mine, my nervous system registers tangled leashes as an actual threat. As danger. My sympathetic nervous system kicks into fight-or-flight mode. My muscles brace. My heart rate spikes. I enter survival mode.

In that state, I don’t have the cognitive bandwidth to say, "Oh, you dumb doggies, let’s untangle this." Or, "Hey buddy, you’re just hungry, I’ve got you." I only have the energy to try to force the environment to stop overwhelming me. That sharp, aggressive reaction doesn’t mean I’m an asshole; it means my body is trying to protect itself from overload.

Now, imagine the same scenario, but my nervous system is down-regulated.

Now when the leashes tangle, instead of a threat response, I inhale. I look at my dogs and think, "They didn't piss me off on purpose." I untangle their leashes, give them some love, and keep walking. It’s over. I was able to access affection instead of anger.

The situation didn't change. The leashes still got tangled and slowed my walk. But I changed because my baseline has shifted. I’ve moved from survival mode to connection mode.

Building a Life That Supports My Nervous System

And in case you’re thinking, “That’s great for you, Tiff. Your kids are older. You’re divorced, so you have more alone time to work on this shit.”

You’re right. I do have more breathing room now. And if you’re in the thick of the newborn phase, sleeping three hours a night and wondering where the hell you’ll find five minutes to meditate, I hear you. It feels impossible.

But I’m sharing this because I want you to recognize that the "monster" version of you isn’t permanent. It’s just what happens when an unregulated nervous system hits its limit. Whether you have five minutes or fifty, whether you’re postpartum week two or year ten, the goal is filling a toolkit with tiny tools that will help you start to shift from survival mode to connection mode, even if it’s just for a second. My toolkit includes things like this:

• Medication: After many trials, I’ve finally found the right combination that stabilizes my mood and turns down the volume on the world. (Side note: I resisted meds for years. I regret it because my kids—and my dogs—paid the price.)

• Cannabis: Using it intentionally to slow my brain down and help me respond to stimuli instead of just reacting. I don’t smoke weed to get high; I use it to help me get to that regulated space where I can be present.

• Mindfulness: Ten minutes of yoga most days and a five-minute meditation. That’s all my brain will allow, but it’s enough to keep the nervous system from spiraling. Consistency beats perfection every time.

• DBT Skills: Learning to pause before I react, even if it’s just for a second. Practicing radical acceptance and putting it into action.

• Understanding My Brain: Knowing that my ADHD and autism mean I process sensory input differently, and accepting that that’s okay. I am not just an asshole.

• Intentional Living: Doing less. Setting up my life in a way that supports my nervous system to the best of my ability, rather than fighting against it.

I wish I had these tools when my babies were babies. I wish I’d known how to co-regulate them before I spiraled into panic. But as they say, hindsight is 20/20. So all I can do is use that hindsight as fuel. My pain, sadness, and regret are actually what drive me to build a life—and a business—that supports the version of me that can turn down the volume and stay present.

This Is Why I Built Lighten the Load

Traditional postpartum advice assumes you have a surplus of energy. It assumes you know how to regulate your nervous system. It doesn’t account for the fact that your brain might process sound differently, that executive function might be shattered, or that the sheer weight of caring for another human being who you love SO MUCH can trigger a panic response that makes it feel like you're rejecting them, even when all you want to do is snuggle and love on them.

If you’re struggling with the gap between how you want to feel (calm, connected, present) and how you actually feel (tense, angry, on-edge), you are not an asshole. You are overwhelmed and under-supported.

Your job right now is not to perform perfection. Your job is to find the tools that help you stay in the "silly dogs" zone long enough to enjoy the ride. Because beyond the tangled leashes, you love your child fiercely. And all you want to do is be the mom they deserve. You just need a little help breathing.

Lighten the Load provides holistic, neuro-divergent-friendly postpartum support in South Jersey. Because caring for yourself is not selfish, it’s generous. It’s the only way to show up as the mom you want to be. 

And always remember: You’re not failing – you’re being failed.