Before 8am: A Poem About Pressure, Parenthood, and Perseverance | Magnetech Marketing

Before the clock even reached eight,
my voice cracked the morning open.
Not from thunder,
but from the sharp edge
of too much held in,
for too many days.

I didn’t mean to raise it—
not like that.
But the coffee was still brewing
when the pressure spilled first from me.

He—
already fraying at the seams,
already fighting what his mind drags in before the light—
flinched.
The room changed.
The air thinned.

His mornings are always harder,
but mine are just as full.
And I—
already running a checklist in my head—
already tired of holding it all together—
became the spark
I swore I didn't want to be.

The child,
caught in the crosswind,
absorbed it all before understanding it.
Their silence wasn’t defiance.
It was survival.

I wanted peace.
Instead, I passed on
the inheritance I never meant to give:
the weight of walking on eggshells.

And yet—
just a floor away,
dreams take form.
Missions unfold—
structured, sound, alive.
Proof that I can still make something good
even when I feel like a wreck.

I don’t want to change them—
not him,
not the children.
I want to sit with them,
love them,
without needing to orchestrate every emotion
like it’s mine to fix.

But this morning, I was the storm.
Not him.
Not them.
Me.

And that truth stings deeper
than anything I heard or said.

I ache for a day
when I can feel my own feelings
without measuring them
against the room’s temperature.
When I can respond
instead of react.
When I can be the mother I needed,
not the one my pain mimics
when I forget to pause.

I think of the mornings from my own childhood:
tight-lipped adults,
rooms heavy with tension,
and the quiet understanding
that love had rules.
That silence meant safety.
That survival sometimes sounded like obedience.

And now—
in this in-between—
I want something else.
How do I get through this day
so tomorrow doesn’t echo it?

How do I greet the night
with softness,
not shame?

Maybe I start
with the breath I should have taken
before the first word.

This is not yours to fix,
I whisper to the child.
And later, maybe—
to myself.

Let him ride his storm.
Let the child feel what they feel.
Let the morning pass
without needing to hold it all in my hands.

Maybe the work today
isn’t fixing what cracked,
but forgiving what surfaced.
Finding one small moment
to be mine—
guilt-free.
Unscored.
Real.

Before 8am,
I was too much.
And still—
I am not broken.
Just human.

Still soft.
Still trying.
And still—
I carry on.

Glenda Beaulieu 2025

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