The white ceramic bowl slipped through my hands and slammed onto the granite counter. Shards flew everywhere: in the pot, in the already prepared dinner bowls, across the kitchen floor. I felt it immediately, that familiar pressure rise in my chest. Like a shaken can of soda, waiting to explode.
Twenty years ago, hell, even ten years ago, I would have become the storm. I remembered being sixteen, watching my burger tumble into gravel, then kicking the car tire repeatedly, flinging my perfectly good Coke and watching it explode on the pavement. Back then, I was a live wire, sparking at the slightest provocation, just like my stepfather was.
But this time was different. Even as that old pressure rose, something else rose with it: awareness. I recognized what was happening. Instead of surrendering to it, I said, “I can’t deal with this. I need to go walk this off.” I stepped outside, sat on my back porch, breathed slowly until my heart rate settled. I went back inside calm, clear, and pulled backup meals from the freezer. No drama, no chaos, no storm for my family to weather. The bowl broke. I didn’t. That’s enough.