Episode 16: The Same Fight, Different Night: A Self-Coaching Breakdown

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This episode is about one of those nights. The kind where something small—like a missing safe food at dinner—turns into something big. The kind where you and your partner have the same argument you’ve had a dozen times, and afterward, you don’t like how you showed up.

I take you inside a real-life moment where my thoughts led me into anxiety, anger, and shame—and how I’m working through it now using the self-coaching tools I teach. Not to shame myself. Not to pretend it didn’t happen. But to understand it, learn from it, and soften my return to connection.

This isn’t an episode about being right. It’s about what happens when we’re human—and how we come back to ourselves and our people after that.

What You'll Learn

• How one unspoken thought can quietly drive anxiety, reactivity, and shutdown
• The specific difference between showing up as a partner vs. prosecuting your partner
• What the self-coaching Model looks like in real life, not just in theory
• How to shift from shame to self-compassion—without bypassing accountability
• Why "repair" is more powerful than perfection, and how to start practicing it

Episode Transcript

So…I got in a fight with my husband last night. And not a quiet, mature disagreement that ends with mutual understanding and a calm debrief over tea. Nope. This was a real fight. In front of the kids. Over dinner.

On the one hand, this sounds harmless, right? But if you’ve ever had a long-standing disagreement that keeps popping up like a game of emotional whack-a-mole, you know—it’s never just about the thing. It’s about the thing, but also ten other things layered underneath it.

So here’s what happened: My youngest daughter is a really picky eater. Like, we’re-working-with-an-OT picky. Like, “don’t let the broccoli touch the plate” picky. And I’ve done what I would generously call research on this. By which I mean I’ve watched many Instagram reels from child feeding experts and possibly read one article with a headline that confirmed what I already believed.

But seriously—I've landed on something I really do believe in: Every meal should include a safe food. Something predictable, familiar, non-threatening. Then we can add the new or challenging foods alongside it. This gives her nervous system a chance to calm down, gives her a certain sense of control over what she’s eating, means that she can eat until she’s full, and keeps us from hovering over her putting a bunch of pressure on eating.

My husband? In theory, he’s on board. But last night, he made dinner. And there was no safe food. None. And I saw the plate, and I immediately thought: Here we go again. Another meltdown. Another argument. Another moment where I feel like I’m doing this alone.

And did I handle it gracefully? Did I pause and take a breath and remember we’re on the same team?

Absolutely not.

We argued. In front of the kids. And I was short and snippy and cold for the rest of the night. Basically the emotional equivalent of slamming cabinets.

And today, I want to talk about it. Not because I’ve wrapped it all up in a lesson—but because I’m still in the unpacking.

We’re going to walk through:

- What I was thinking and feeling in the moment

- What my brain made it mean

- The thoughts that pulled me into anxiety, anger, and shame

- And then… what I could have done. Not from a place of “I should have,” but from a place of this is what it looks like to learn without self-shaming.

Because the truth is, this isn’t just about picky eating. It’s about those moments where you don’t show up how you wanted to. And you get to stay with yourself anyway.

Let’s get into it.

SEGMENT 1: THE UNINTENTIONAL MODEL (WITH REAL ACTIONS)

So here’s what was actually happening inside me, even though none of this was said out loud.

Let’s start with the moment I saw the dinner.

My youngest’s plate had no safe food. Just the new, challenging stuff we’ve been working toward. And immediately, my brain went:

“Dinner is going to be a fight now.”

And that thought hit fast. It landed in my body like a little spike of panic. I felt my chest tighten, my shoulders brace like I was gearing up for something.

So when I plug this into the self-coaching model I teach in my own program, here’s what it looked like.

My thought was: “Dinner’s going to be a fight.”

Not a loud, dramatic thought—just a quiet, fast, familiar one. It moved through me so quickly I didn’t even realize I was believing it. But I was. Fully.

And as soon as that thought landed, the feeling that came up was anxiety. That bracing, tense energy. Not panic. Just that sense of: here we go. I was already preparing for conflict before anyone had even sat down.

From that anxiety came the way I showed up—my actions.

I started fussing with the plates, not to help, but to control. I pointed at the food and asked—too sharply—“Did we make something for her?”
I hovered behind my daughter, trying to keep her from reacting before she even had a chance to. I corrected the setup, micromanaged the table, filled the air with nervous energy. I tried to manage everyone’s experience so mine wouldn’t spiral.

And the result?

I walked in already convinced it was going to go badly—and I helped make that true.

Not because I wanted to, but because that one little thought had already set the tone. I wasn’t in connection. I wasn’t in presence. I was in preemptive protection mode.

That’s what the model helps me see: not just what I did, but what made sense underneath it. It’s not about blaming myself—it’s about understanding how I got there, so I have a shot at doing it differently next time.

Then the next thought hit, not long after we started talking about it.

“My husband is lying to me.”

And I didn’t say that out loud. I didn’t even fully realize I was thinking it. But it was there. He says he agrees with the food approach. He nods when I explain things. He even throws in the “yep, totally”—like he’s on board.

But when the moment came, and it actually mattered—there was no safe food. And that’s when my brain told me: See? He doesn’t actually mean it.

That thought created an immediate feeling: anger.

But not big, stormy anger. This was more… icy. Controlled. 

And when I’m angry in that particular way, I go into what I call courtroom mode.

The action that followed was exactly that:
I started building my case.
“This is the third time in two weeks.”
“You say you’re on board, but then you don’t follow through.”

I said it in front of the kids. I used that clipped, tight voice that technically isn’t yelling, but everyone in the room knows it’s not nothing. I weaponized tone, precision, memory. I moved into power instead of partnership.

And the result?

I positioned him as the problem. I stepped out of the relationship and into the role of prosecutor. And from there, there’s no softness. There’s no collaboration. There’s no “we.”

It’s me, alone in my certainty, trying to win a fight I never wanted to be in.

That’s what the model showed me, not just what I did, but why it made sense, and how much power that one thought had in shaping my whole posture in the moment.

And then—because this is how it often goes—anger made room for shame.

Later that night, after the kids were in bed and I was still stomping around pretending I wasn’t mad anymore, that quieter thought crept in:

“I’m a bad wife. I’m a bad mom.”

And I want to be clear—this wasn’t a dramatic thought.
It didn’t come with tears or a breakdown.
It was just this low, steady hum underneath everything.

It sounded like:
You didn’t handle that well.
You made dinner harder than it needed to be.
You let the mood bleed into the room.
You modeled tension instead of safety.
You should be better at this by now.

That thought didn’t move me toward reflection or repair.
It just made me feel small. Like I had already failed, and there wasn’t a way back.

The feeling it created was shame.
Heavy, quiet, disconnecting shame.

And from there, my actions reflected it.

I didn’t say goodnight to the kids with any warmth.
I avoided eye contact with my husband.
I climbed into bed and picked up my phone—not to check anything important, just to scroll, numb, check out.
I didn’t say I was shutting down. I just did it.

And the result?

I pulled away from the people I care about most—and from my own capacity to come back to myself.

That’s the part that stings most: not the fight itself, but the way shame made me disappear a little. From them. From myself. From the version of me who actually knows how to move forward.

But again, this is what the Model gives me—not a way to judge that version of me, but a way to see her clearly. To understand how one subtle, quiet thought created a ripple I didn’t even notice until it was already over.

And from that understanding, I can practice something else next time.

SEGMENT 2: ZOOMING OUT – THIS WASN'T JUST ABOUT DINNER

Now, this specific story was about dinner and picky eating and safe foods. But let’s be honest. That wasn’t really what the fight was about.

Because the truth is, we’ve all had this fight.

Not necessarily this exact version, but our own version. The one we’ve had twelve times. Or 100 times. Where it’s not about the dishwasher, or bedtime, or who forgot to grab the thing from the store.
It’s about what we make those moments mean.

And it’s usually something like:

- “You don’t listen to me.”

- “I’m alone in this.”

- “You say you care, but your actions don’t show it.”

- “Now I have to carry it. Again.”

Those thoughts come in fast. They sound so true. And they don’t show up calmly. They come with a physical reaction. Tightness. Reactivity. That hard-to-sit-with sense of urgency + disappointment.

So as you listen to the next part, I just want to invite you bring your own version of this fight into your mind.

That one recurring conflict where you don’t show up how you want to. Where your feelings get big fast.
Where your partner, or friend, or kid says something, and suddenly you're somewhere else in your body, running a story you didn’t even realize was queued up.

Because what we’re about to walk through isn’t really about picky eating. It’s about what happens when something familiar triggers something tender, and you’re too tired, or too hurt, or too over it to slow down.

So now that we’ve looked at what was going on under the surface, let’s look at what could have happened.
Not because I should have done better, but because these moments are also places to practice what feels more authentic and true to who we are underneath all of our thoughts.

SEGMENT 3: THE INTENTIONAL MODELS (WITH SELF-COACHING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MESS)

So, here’s the part where I look back—not with guilt, but with curiosity. Not to rewrite what happened, but to ask: What else was available to me in that moment?

These aren’t clean or polished. These are the kinds of thoughts I could have reached for, not because they’re perfect, but because they would have softened me. Given me a little more space to respond instead of react.

Intentional Model 1: From Anxiety to Groundedness

So let’s go back to the beginning of the night.

That moment I looked at the plate and saw no safe food.
The original thought that came up was: “Dinner is going to be a fight.”

And the feeling that thought created was immediate: anxiety. That tight, alert sense that something bad is about to happen, and I need to get ahead of it—now.

If I had been self-coaching in that moment—really slowing down and noticing—I would have started by naming that feeling clearly: This is anxiety.

Not anger, not resentment yet. Just that buzzing, bracing energy of trying to avoid conflict before it starts.

Then I would have looked at the thought itself: “Dinner is going to be a fight.”

And I would have asked:
Is that actually true?
Can I know, for sure, that this will turn into a battle?

And if I’m honest: no. I can’t.

I’ve seen nights where she surprised me.
Where we forgot a safe food and it wasn’t the end of the world.
Where I responded calmly and that helped her stay regulated, even if she was thrown off.
Where things didn’t explode the way I was bracing for.

So from there, I might gently try on the opposite thought—not forcing it, just offering it:
“What if dinner doesn’t have to be a fight?”

And then I’d sit with that for a beat.
Let that thought drop in and ask myself:
Does this feel more true in my body?
Does it soften my tone, or my breath, or my posture—even a little?

If it does, that’s the thought I go with. Not because it magically fixes anything, but because it gives me a little more access to how I want to show up.

And from that place—just a few degrees more grounded—here’s what I imagine I would have done:

I would have taken a breath.
Grabbed a safe food from the fridge and added it to her plate without commentary.
I wouldn’t have needed to explain or correct or control the whole table.
I could’ve stayed in my body. I could’ve stayed kind.

And the whole tone of dinner—whether it went smoothly or not—would’ve started from connection instead of tension.

That’s the kind of shift this work allows.
Not perfection. Not scripts.
Just enough awareness to respond with intention, instead of from that braced-up version of me that was already halfway to meltdown.

Intentional Model 2: From Anger to Compassionate Clarity

The second wave of the night came fast—right after we started talking about the food.

The original thought was: “My husband is lying to me.”
Not lying in the traditional sense. But that deep, quiet accusation that lives in the subtext:
You say you’re with me, but your actions don’t match. And I can’t trust that.

The feeling that thought created in me was anger—but not explosive anger.
More like cold, sharp, courtroom anger.
The kind where I start lining up evidence in my head, getting ready to build my case.

If I were self-coaching in that moment, here’s where I would have started:

First, name the feeling: This is anger.
I feel tight. Rigid. Like I’m about to debate, not connect.

Then, take a breath and look at the thought:
“He’s lying to me.”

Is that actually true?

Maybe it feels true because I’ve seen this pattern before.
But can I absolutely know it? No.

Is it possible… that he forgot?
That he wasn’t thinking about the meal the way I was?
That he wasn’t trying to sabotage anything, but was just moving through the evening in a different headspace?

Then I’d try on the opposite—not to dismiss myself, but to stretch into curiosity: “What if he’s trying, even if he missed the mark?”

And I’d notice: How does that feel in my body?

It doesn’t make the situation okay, but it changes the energy. There’s space for conversation now—not confrontation. It’s a moment we can come back from.

From there, the actions would’ve been so different.

Instead of listing out examples and raising my voice just enough to let the room know I was mad,
I might have waited until the kids were settled and said, “Hey—can we check in on dinner stuff? I felt thrown off when there wasn’t a safe food. I want to make sure we’re still on the same page.”

Still honest. Still direct. But not icy. Not keeping score.

And the result?

We could’ve stayed in collaboration, even in disagreement. I could’ve been advocating without attacking. He could’ve stayed open instead of getting defensive.

And I could’ve stayed in the role I want to live in—not the prosecutor, but the partner.

That’s the kind of shift this work helps me make—not to avoid hard conversations, but to have them from a place where I’m still connected to what I value.

Intentional Model 3: From Shame to Self-Compassion

And then—after the heat of the argument, after the dinner cleanup, after the kids were in bed—came the quietest thought of the night:

“I’m a bad wife. I’m a bad mom.”

It didn’t shout. It didn’t even surprise me.
It just sort of… settled in.
Like, of course I messed this up.
Of course I made it worse.
Of course I’m the problem.

The feeling that came with it was shame.
That heavy, sinking emotion that doesn’t lead anywhere helpful.
It doesn’t fuel action or repair—it just makes me want to hide.

If I’d been self-coaching in that moment, here’s what I would’ve done:

First, just name it: This is shame.

That’s what this heaviness is. Not truth. Not clarity. Just the voice of shame doing what it always does: pulling me inward and convincing me I don’t deserve to re-enter the room.

Then, I’d name the thought again, clearly I’m believing that “I’m a bad wife. I’m a bad mom.”

Is that true?

Not: Did I handle this well?—because no, I didn’t.
But does that mistake define me?

Have I never made a repair? Never softened? Never shown up with care?

That’s when I gently try on the opposite thought—not as a forced affirmation, but as a real question:

“What if I’m just a human?”

Not a bad mom. Not a perfect mom. Just… human.

When I sit with that thought, my body softens a little. The hiding urge loosens. I get access to a next move.

And that’s what I’d do.

I might knock on my daughter’s door and say, “Hey, I didn’t like how I handled dinner. I was frustrated, and I took it out on everyone. That’s not your fault.”

I might look at my husband and say, “That got away from me tonight. I want to start over.”

Not because I have to fix it all before I sleep—but because I can come back. Because I can still model something honest, even when it’s not polished.

And the result?

Instead of disappearing into shame, I stay present. I stay in the room. I stay with myself.

That’s self-compassion—not because I excused my behavior, but because I chose to see it fully and move toward connection.

That’s what this work helps me do. Not to feel good all the time. But to make returning easier. Softer. Possible.

CONCLUSION

So that’s where I’ve landed after all of it.

Not with a fixed version of how I should’ve handled dinner.
Not with a perfectly calm partner or a child who suddenly eats new foods.
But with a little more understanding of what was actually going on inside me.

Because the truth is, I didn’t show up how I wanted to that night.
I let my thoughts lead me into anxiety.
I let my anger speak before my curiosity could.
And I let my shame convince me I didn’t deserve to reconnect.

And still—none of that makes me a bad mom. Or a bad wife.
It just makes me a human.

One who’s practicing.

That’s what I want you to take away from this, if you’re in your own version of the same fight… again.
You don’t have to get it perfect next time.
But maybe you get a little more space between the thought and the action.
Maybe you hear the story you’re about to run.
Maybe you pause long enough to ask, “What else could be true here?”

Thanks for listening.
I’ll see you next time.