When the Cry Feels Like Crisis

Some of the hardest moments in parenting don’t come from tantrums or messes. They come from the unexpected ways our own nervous systems respond—and how those reactions leave us questioning who we are as parents.

From My Car to My Core: Sound, Stress, and a Search for Control

Years ago, when my daughter was a baby, there were moments in the car that caught me off guard. She’d start crying—tired, cranky, nothing unusual. But sometimes, the cry would shift into something else. Not a whimper. Not even a scream. A wail. Full-body. Piercing. The kind of cry that sounded like pain, even when I knew she was safe.

And something inside me would start to shift.

The helplessness would build slowly. I’d try to stay calm. Breathe. Focus on the road. But the longer it went on, the more I felt like I was losing control. I couldn’t soothe her. I couldn’t stop the sound. I felt like I was failing her—and the pressure in my chest grew unbearable.

Eventually, it tipped into intense anger.

Not at her. Never at her. But at the situation. At myself. At how powerless I felt. At how loud and overwhelming the world suddenly became. There were a couple of times when my wife and I had to pull over—not for her safety, but so that I could breathe and have a moment to reset.

I felt it again years later—with my son. The same kind of scream. The same reaction in my body. The same quiet panic. And once again, I asked myself: What is wrong with me?

It wasn’t until much later that I started to understand.

I grew up in a household where yelling was part of the environment. My parents did the best they could—and they raised four strong-willed, honorable humans. I hold no blame. But the atmosphere could be tense at times. Raised voices meant something was wrong. And my body learned to respond.

I remember being in the other room—just a kid—hearing them argue. It was never sudden. It would build. And I would feel it in my chest like steam rising. I couldn’t make them stop. I couldn’t make them love each other the way I needed them to. I’d sit with it until I couldn’t anymore. Then I’d explode out of the shadows and scream, pleading for them to stop fighting. That was the only thing I could control—my voice, breaking through their noise.

So now, when I hear that same kind of sound—that pitch, that intensity—it doesn’t feel like “just a cry.” It feels like a return to the helplessness of a child who couldn’t make peace in his own home.

Add to that the way ADHD wires my brain for sensory sensitivity and emotional flooding, and it makes sense. It wasn’t just about the crying. It was the perfect storm: sound, helplessness, overstimulation, and an old, unresolved script about not being enough.

This wasn’t about being a bad father. It was about being overwhelmed. About having a brain that processes emotion, sound, and pressure differently—and a body that was doing its best to keep up.

🔍 What I Learned

Emotional overload isn’t weakness. It’s a signal. It’s my brain and body asking for support, not punishment. Understanding the roots of those moments helped me meet them with more awareness—and a lot more self-compassion.

💡 Why This Stuck With Me

Because I thought something was wrong with me. But what I really needed was a better understanding of how I’m wired—and how to stay grounded when the volume in life turns all the way up.