I didn’t have the words for it when I was younger; I just thought everyone’s house ran on hurry-ups, raised voices, and last-minute saves.
Then I became a dad and realized how many of my “normal” habits were really just echoes of chaos.
If any of these land for you, you’re not broken—you’re practiced.
Around our house, Camille and I use small, repeatable routines to turn the volume down for Elise (4) and Julien (14 months).
Here’s what that looks like:
1) You only relax when everything is urgent
If you grew up in unpredictability, the adrenaline of a deadline can feel like home.
You clean at 10:52 p.m., sprint through mornings, and manufacture mini fires when none exist.
When nothing is on fire, do you start one?
What helps me: On Sundays I make two lists—Musts (non-negotiables like packing snacks) and Would be nice (everything else).
I cap each day at three Musts on our shared calendar.
It forces me to live a day without emergency fuel.
A therapist once told me, “Urgency is a feeling, not a fact.”
I repeat that when my brain goes hunting for sirens.
2) You overread every whisper in the room
Chaotic homes train you to scan faces like radar.
A sigh feels like danger, and a late text means rejection.
You try to fix the vibe before breakfast—and accidentally make the room tighter.
Our fix is a 30-second doorway check-in when one of us gets home: “I’m at 6/10 stress, work was a lot, I need 10 minutes to land.”
Naming the signal keeps me from mind-reading and lets the family read me accurately.
I regulate first, then relate.
3) You think love equals walking on eggshells
If volatility was common, tip-toeing can look like caring.
You under-ask, over-apologize, and load the dishwasher like it’s a pop quiz.
Reframe: Care isn’t eggshells—it’s clarity.
We practice “gentle directness.”
For example: “Bedtime feels heavy on my nights. Can we shift bath to whoever’s home earlier?”
If speaking up makes your chest tighten, try: “I’m not upset; I’m trying to be clear.”
Then share one observable fact and pause.
Clarity is as kind as eggs are for breakfast.
4) You normalize chaos as connection
In some families, the sweetest moments follow the storm—big apology dinner after the blow-up, cozy movie night after the fight.
Your system learns to chase repair instead of preventing rupture, so as an adult you might bond after messes rather than before them.
We’re trying to flip that script with two tiny rituals:
- Micro-check-ins during coffee: “How’s your energy? One thing you need? Where can I carry more today?” Twenty seconds, big yield.
- Predictable pockets: Tuesday stir-fry and a scooter walk with Julien in the carrier and a low hum from me. Repetition calms everyone’s system.
Little steady beats before the day gets loud.
5) You confuse intensity with intimacy
If “loud meant love” growing up, steady can feel flat.
You might stir the pot—sharp words to spark engagement, debates that end in distance.
I had to learn that intimacy isn’t measured in decibels.
It’s measured in how safe people feel being themselves near you.
At 7:38 p.m., that looks like lowering my voice to the level I want the room to find, kneeling to Elise’s height: “You’re mad the blue cup’s dirty. Want to help wash it or choose the green while I wash?”
With Julien, it’s the same three-note hum while I sway.
Intensity goes down while intimacy goes up!
6) You treat unpredictability as a personality trait
When life used to swing from calm to chaos on the half hour, routines can feel like traps.
Maybe you’ve said, “I’m just not a routine person.”
Maybe, or maybe routines were landmines before, not ladders—now I treat them like scaffolding.
Three that changed our house:
- 10-minute evening reset (timer on): Soak pans, wipe counters, prep bottles, lay out outfits, backpacks by the door, coffee set. Stop when the timer dings—even if it’s imperfect.
- Diaper caddy restock on my WFH day: Wipes, cream, four diapers, spare clothes, bag. Boring saves future me.
- Thursday logistics text to Camille: “Who’s got pickup/drop-off? Any late meetings? Where are we stretched?” Five lines keep small cracks from becoming canyons.
Unpredictable used to be my brand, now it’s an occasional guest.
7) You think self-abandonment is just what good parents do
If your needs weren’t considered—or big people’s needs always took the oxygen—you may equate love with going last.
You say yes until you’re empty, then snap at the people you love most.
I don’t buy the martyr myth.
My kids don’t need a perfect dad; they need a steady one.
Steadiness requires maintenance.
On my WFH day, Julien and I do a long carrier walk after his contact nap—phone away, same slow sway; on Sundays, I batch-cook two base meals so weeknights are heat-and-eat.
Twice a month, early coffee with a friend where we talk about something besides work and diapers.
Tiny chargers for my battery.
Brené Brown’s reminder helps: “We don’t have to do all of it alone. We were never meant to.”
Asking for help isn’t failure; it’s an investment in family stability.
Where we go from here
What now? Well, if these patterns felt familiar, it means you adapted brilliantly.
The same intelligence that kept you afloat can build you a steadier boat.
When I tuck Elise in, I whisper the same line: “Home is safe. Your feelings are welcome. We’re on your team.”
I’m saying it for her—and for the kid I used to be, who thought chaos was just how families work.
Turns out, steady can feel normal too.
With a few small rhythms, you can teach your nervous system to believe it.
