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Parenting in a New Era: Learning to Hold Space for Big Feelings

Winding park path with large tree and small supported tree at sunset

This generation of parents (Gen X, Millenials) is navigating a new frontier. It is not only about survival or status now as parents we are prioritizing our children’s the psychological and emotional well-being. This is a positive shift; however, it comes with a major challenge that many do not have a model to follow. 

We tend to parent the way we were parented, leaning on “that’s what we always did” or “we turned out fine.” Yet our generation knows our parents weren’t always fine. Many of our parents experienced addiction, mental health struggles, and physical health problems. Many did not have the privilege to focus on their emotional well-being because they were trying to survive.

As their children, our generation has started the work of prioritizing our own mental and emotional well-being. The problem is, we’re often doing it without a roadmap.

When Parents Seek Help

Parents often come to therapy with their children when they feel stuck or things get so bad that they do not know what else to do. The child is often child is exhibiting a behaviour they’ve tried to address, and they have tried all they can and the behaviour persists. While the referral is typically for the child, what I’ve found is that parents need support, validation, and counselling too.

Consider the example of a child who has done something wrong or had a big reaction. Our generation often talks about not having those reactions as kids because we “would never dare.” What does that quote mean, really? I have come to believe that it means that as children, many of our generation wouldn’t have had big reactions for fear of discipline and punishment. Or our reactions were labelled as “drama” and therefore dismissed.

Now, as parents, we ask our children to tell us how they feel, but then we’re uncomfortable when those feelings are negative and big. That discomfort often comes from the fact that we weren’t allowed to have those feelings. When we see them in our children, it’s hard to tolerate because we can’t tolerate them in ourselves. So, we tell them to stop. We don’t react. Or we punish them.

What Our Responses Teach

I don’t blame parents for responding in these ways. I understand it. However,  if we really want to support our children’s emotional well-being, we need to teach them how to acknowledge their emotions, increase their distress tolerance, and learn to regulate.

Ignoring, dismissing, or punishing emotions doesn’t teach children how to manage them. Instead, it teaches them one or more of the following lessons; their emotions don’t matter; they’re “too much” or “too sensitive”; they’re a burden; they should hide what they feel; they should deal with their feelings alone; they should not feel their emotions. 

I know parents don’t want to teach these lessons for their children; it is not their intention. But what can we do when we have no model, when it’s hard to tolerate their emotions, and when those emotions are so big?

On the other end of the spectrum, parents’ approach to their child’s negative emotions is to try to take away our child’s uncomfortable feelings. This makes sense; we have the instinct to protect our children, and we don’t want them distressed. However, stepping in to fix the problem for them doesn’t teach distress tolerance. In fact, it can teach children to be fearful of their feelings and believe they can’t handle them.

What We Really Need: Validation

Think about conflicting with someone in your life and you tell your partner or a friend about the conflict. How does it feel when you tell them how you are feeling and they reply by saying you’re being too sensitive, or jump straight to fixing the problem? I think we all agree that it doesn’t feel good. You may feel dismissed, or like they don’t think you can come up with a solution yourself.

Most of the time when in conflict and we go to someone about it; we’re looking for validation.

Validation is not the same as agreement. Agreement sounds like: “I agree, that was a horrible thing for Tommy to do.” Validation sounds like: “I understand that what happened with Tommy made you sad.”

I’m validating the child’s emotion, not necessarily agreeing with their interpretation, because we often don’t have the whole story.

Fueling the Fire vs. Regulating

Here’s another parallel to adult conflict: when we walk away or get distance from a conflict, we often continue to feed the conflict in our minds. We think of all the ways we’re right and they’re wrong, the things we could have said, the reasons we should feel hurt or angry. But this doesn’t help us regulate, it fuels the fire.

Children do this too, even though their brains aren’t fully developed. It’s not fair. They don’t like me. They started it. This is fueling the fire.

What we want instead is to help them acknowledge their feelings, notice where they feel them in their bodies, and then help them to figure out what they need to feel better.

What This Might Sound Like

Parent: “How are you feeling about what happened with Tommy? What part makes you the angriest?”

Child: “I’m angry because Tommy said I couldn’t play.”

Parent: “I understand you’re angry because Tommy said you couldn’t play. It feels hurtful when someone leaves you out.”

Child: “Yes, it does.”

Parent: “What do you need to feel better?”

Child: “I don’t know.”

Parent: “Would you like a hug, to take the dog for a walk, or to play a game together?”

Child: “I don’t know. Maybe a walk.”

The shift here is moving from focusing on the conflict to asking: What do I need to feel better? Once everyone feels better, you can move on to fixing, repairing, or understanding the problem.

Becoming the Model

What becomes the problem that I hear from parents is that they often don’t know how to be mindful of their emotions for themselves, so they’re learning for themselves and trying to teach their child at the same time. This is what makes it tricky, but also what makes it so healing.

Our children can be our biggest teachers. I say this often.

If we don’t have models, we need to become them ourselves. As adults, we can learn, so that we can model it for our children.

The Work is Worth It

This work isn’t easy. You’re unlearning patterns that kept you safe as a child while trying to create something different for your own children. You’re building the plane while flying it.

But here’s what I want you to know; you don’t have to do this perfectly. You just have to do it imperfectly, over and over again. Repair when you get it wrong. Try again tomorrow.

Every time you sit with your child’s big feelings instead of shutting them down, you’re teaching them something powerful; that their emotions are welcome here, that they’re not too much, and that they don’t have to face hard things alone.

You’re also teaching yourself the same thing.

The generation that didn’t have models is becoming the model. And that’s not just parenting. That’s healing.

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Why Self-Care is Complicated for Neurodiverse Moms

Over the past few months, I’ve been talking with many parents raising highly sensitive, fiery, and/or neurodiverse children. What breaks my heart again and again is the isolation, shame, guilt, fear, and deep burnout I hear from the mothers I meet.

Like many of these moms, I have felt—and continue to feel—this way in my own parenting. While this experience seems almost normalized among neurodiverse moms raising neurodiverse children, I don’t believe it has to be this way.

This is a blog post that moves beyond the individual mom and looks at the system she is living inside.

Most days, as I drive my children to their many activities, I listen to podcasts. It probably won’t surprise you that they’re usually focused on self-growth or neurodiversity. And while I genuinely enjoy them, I can’t help but notice what’s missing: the voices of neurodiverse mothers raising neurodiverse children.

We hear from men and dads. We hear from women without children. But we rarely hear from women who are living this reality every single day—navigating school systems, therapies, emotional regulation, executive functioning challenges, and their own nervous systems at the same time.

This matters because the message mothers receive, over and over again, is that we are not doing enough.

Not doing enough for our kids.
Not advocating enough.
Not providing enough structure.
Not staying calm enough.
Not spending enough time with our children.
Not playing enough.
Not taking care of ourselves enough.

That last one is especially important. I absolutely believe that moms need time and space for themselves. But when self-care is presented without acknowledging the system surrounding mothers—particularly neurodiverse mothers—it often creates more guilt and shame. Not because they don’t value self-care, but because the system they are parenting within doesn’t allow for it.

Just this week alone, I’ve had to cancel my own “self-care” plans because of a combination of normal parenting things and ADHD-related chaos: keys locked in the car, a broken phone, last-minute hockey sessions, schedule changes, emergency dance choreography bookings, a sick child, a snow day—and it’s only Thursday.

Any one of these things could happen to anyone. But for a neurodiverse mom raising neurodiverse children (and often partnered with someone who is also neurodiverse), these moments require a huge amount of executive functioning—much of which is already being borrowed by everyone else in the family.

That looks like searching for the spare key (never found), arranging rides with only one car, tracking down the CAA card, taking photos of the card and number, managing last-minute logistics, and keeping everything moving forward. On their own, these tasks may not seem like a big deal. But when a mother who already has her own executive functioning challenges has her executive functioning borrowed all day long by others—planning, organizing, paying bills, remembering passwords, finding lost items, tracking appointments, filling out forms—it adds up quickly.

Then there are the unexpected emotional needs: a child who refuses school, a meltdown that causes you to miss an appointment, the aftermath that still needs tending to once the crisis has passed.

And then there are the self-help gurus—often men—talking about morning routines.

Now, I’m not saying morning routines aren’t helpful. They can be. But when the advice is “just wake up at 5 or 6 a.m.,” I have questions.

Who was up with the baby in the middle of the night?
Who got up for the nightmares?
Who lay with a child until they fell asleep?
Who had a child crawl into their bed because they were scared?

Maybe it was their partner—but then I ask this: who is with the kids while you meditate, journal, work out, shower, and get ready for work?

Someone stays home to make that routine possible.

And more often than not, it’s the mom.

So when exactly is a mother supposed to have her uninterrupted morning routine? Where is the conversation about shared responsibility, or modifications, or how partners can support this? The lack of perspective—and frankly, the lack of curiosity—around this is astounding to me. It’s rarely even acknowledged.

On top of all of this, I hear women talk about going to healthcare providers and not being taken seriously. When they do receive help from family or friends, they worry about how their child will behave, the judgment they’ll receive, or having to explain their child’s needs, preferences, and differences.

Often, it feels easier not to ask for help at all.

Friends don’t get it. Family members suggest stricter discipline. Schools call multiple times a day because your child forgot something, got in trouble, is overwhelmed, is panicking, or has a tummy ache.

So while self-care is a meaningful and necessary concept—and one that moms of neurodiverse kids need more than most—the system around them makes it incredibly hard to access. Worse, it often leaves them feeling ashamed for not being able to do it “properly.”

This isn’t a failure of mothers.

It’s a failure of the systems we expect them to survive within.

If you’re a mom reading this and quietly thinking, “This is me,” I want you to know you’re not alone—and you’re not failing.

Nothing is wrong with you for feeling exhausted, resentful, overwhelmed, or stuck. Your nervous system is responding exactly as it should to the amount of load you’re carrying.

My hope is that we begin talking more openly about this—not just at the level of individual coping strategies, but at the level of systems, expectations, and shared responsibility. That we make space for the voices of neurodiverse mothers raising neurodiverse children, and that we stop measuring ourselves against advice that was never designed with our realities in mind.

If this resonated, I invite you to share it with another parent who might feel alone, or to simply let yourself pause and offer compassion to the version of you doing the best she can today.

You don’t need to fix yourself.

You deserve support.

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Building Confidence in Children: A Play Therapy Approach

“Do not do for the child what the child can do for themselves.”
This quote by Virginia Axline, one of the pioneers of play therapy, continues to be one of the principles in our practice of child-centred play therapy today.

Eight years ago, I began my journey as a play therapist. I transitioned from working in an agency to creating my own playroom at home—a cozy, intentional space designed for children to explore and express themselves freely. This approach felt deeply aligned with my beliefs about children’s mental health, growth, and resilience.

From the start, child-centred play therapy aligned with my values as a therapist. I felt naturally attuned to the child—following their lead, listening closely to their voice, and trusting that they already held the wisdom they needed to heal.

But I’ll admit—one part of this work challenged me. When a child struggled with something—trying to fix a toy, dress a doll, or build something that kept falling apart—my instinct was to jump in and help. It took a lot of self-awareness to pause and remind myself that my role wasn’t to rescue or fix, but to hold space and allow the child to try.

And when they finally figured it out—their face lighting up with pride and joy—it was always worth the wait. That moment of triumph belonged entirely to them. It built confidence, perseverance, and the deep internal motivation that only comes from experiencing success through effort.

I began to apply this same principle at home with my own children. I made a conscious effort to step back when I knew they were capable, even if it meant things took longer or didn’t turn out “perfectly.” It’s not always easy—watching your child struggle can tug at every instinct to help—but it’s often exactly what they need.

One memory that stands out is when my daughter started doing her hair for dance. She has ADHD and dyslexia, which for her means she’s very particular and often perfectionistic. No matter how gently I brushed, it was never quite “right.” One day, when she was about seven, I mentioned that it usually hurts less when you brush and do your own hair because you’re in control. That sparked something for her. She started by brushing her hair, then moved on to making ponytails, and eventually, she could do the whole hairstyle on her own. Now, she does her own hair every time—and she loves the independence (and I’ll admit, I’m pretty happy about it too!).

In both the playroom and at home, I’m always mindful of developmental readiness. A three-year-old may not be able to get a doll’s arm through a sleeve, so instead of doing it for them, I might ask, “Would you like some help?” and then support just enough to help them succeed. It’s the same concept teachers use—scaffolding—helping a child build one skill at a time so they can experience success and keep growing from there.

When Axline said not to do for the child what they can do for themselves, she was speaking about more than just independence. She was speaking about attachment and confidence. As caregivers, we are our children’s secure base—the place they return to for safety, comfort, and encouragement. When we step back just enough, we show them that we trust their abilities. We communicate, “I believe in you.”

When we step in too quickly, we unintentionally take away their opportunity to feel capable, proud, and resilient. However, growth doesn’t happen by tossing children into the deep end, but by gently teaching them how to float, kick, and swim—one step at a time.

And that’s really the heart of Axline’s message: our children don’t just need us to help; they need us to believe they can. When we trust them to try, we give them the space to discover their own strength.

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Understanding Your Spirited Child: A Turning Point

Yesterday, I found myself sitting across from my long-time play therapy supervisor—one of the most respected play therapists in Canada. At the beginning of our meeting that focuses on supervision, she offered me a few books she was no longer using. The first one she passed me was Raising Your Spirited Child. I looked at her and said, “This is a full circle moment.” Let me explain why.

When Wesley was an infant and toddler, I knew that parenting him would be different. I often felt judged by others, like no one truly understood what I was going through. I was constantly exhausted and on high alert, trying to meet the needs of my highly sensitive, deeply feeling child.

While most people around me did not get what I was feeling or experiencing, my mother-in-law was more understanding. For her, Wesley’s energy seemed normal. Her three boys were very similar. And while that was somewhat comforting, it also made me feel worse for struggling.

To give you a picture—Wesley didn’t walk, he ran. He didn’t sit still; he was in constant motion. He craved human connection, and as a young child, that person was always me. Sleep was a battle—he took forever to fall asleep and would wake up incredibly early.

If I had been an extroverted, sensory-seeking parent who thrived on social interaction and stimulation, this kind of intensity might have felt like a perfect match. But I wasn’t. I am the kind of person that often longs for peace and quiet. I get overwhelmed by noise and crowds. I love people, but I also deeply need my alone time. Back then, undiagnosed and untreated for ADHD, I was tired—drained.

And I was also doing my PhD.

The days when I was with Wesley for long stretches were particularly difficult—not because I didn’t love being with him, but because it was just the two of us, and he thrived in highly social environments. Yet there were very few social spaces that could accommodate his energy level at that age. The mismatch between what he needed and what I could offer felt heavy, and isolating.

Even through the exhaustion, I knew my son was a gift. His intensity, his passion, his emotions—these were qualities that would one day serve him. But in those early years, they were hard on me.

As someone raised in the pre-internet era, books were always where I turned to understand the world. I devoured parenting books, but nothing seemed to fit. Until one day, I found Raising Your Spirited Child. I remember reading it and weeping. For the first time, someone saw me. Someone saw him. Not in a negative light, but through a lens that highlighted his strengths, not just the challenges.

That book was a turning point. It validated what I had always known in my gut: my son didn’t need fixing—he needed understanding. And so, did I. That moment sparked a fire in me to learn more about the diversity of children’s brains, nervous systems, temperaments, and development. It was the beginning of a new path.

So, when my supervisor—now guiding me on my journey to becoming a play therapy supervisor—handed me that very same book yesterday, I paused. It was one of those quiet, powerful nudges from the universe.

A reminder: You’re on the right path. This work is for you.

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Understanding Dyslexia: A Mother’s Journey with Her Daughter

As a toddler, my daughter Madison loved books. She would sit in her rocking chair and “read” to her dolls, to our dog, or even just to herself—telling elaborate stories based on the pictures. I thought for sure she would become an avid reader. She loved storytelling and seemed captivated by every book she picked up. But as she started learning her letters and sight words, things began to shift. Madison stopped picking up books. She no longer wanted to read, and I couldn’t understand why.

In Kindergarten, she’d bring books home and ask us to read them first. Then, she would “read” them back to us—but I quickly realized she was memorizing the stories, not decoding the words. If I pointed to a word out of context, she couldn’t recognize it. We practiced sight words; she’d seem to get them one day, only to forget them the next. She knew the sounds that letters made but couldn’t blend them to read even simple words. When asked to spell, she’d write what she heard—but unlike most children, this didn’t fade with time. Her challenges persisted.

This wasn’t something I understood well. I knew ADHD—I had personal experience with it, however reading had been my childhood escape. I devoured books, reading under the covers until my eyes burned. Reading was never hard for me. But Madison’s experience mirrored that of my husband and his brother, both of whom had struggled with reading and writing.

When Madison had her psychoeducational assessment, she was diagnosed with ADHD-C and identified as being in the very low average range for reading and writing—second percentile. Still, there was no diagnosis related to her reading and writing struggles. The psychologist attributed her difficulties to inattentiveness from ADHD and pandemic-related disruptions in schooling. But I knew this wasn’t the case. Madison could focus deeply on art and storytelling. We read together every night, had a home full of books, and practiced regularly. And while my older son also had ADHD, he had no issues learning to read. Madison’s challenges didn’t fit the explanation we were given.

After treating her ADHD, nothing changed with reading. She continued to mask at school, and her teachers didn’t raise concerns. Finally, in Grade 3, after I advocated for Madison to be reassessed, she was diagnosed with a learning disability in reading and writing.

But no one said the word dyslexia.

In Ontario, psychologists and schools often avoid using the term dyslexia in assessments because it’s not a diagnostic label recognized in the DSM-5. Instead, terms like “Specific Learning Disorder with impairment in reading” are used—broad, clinical phrases that don’t provide families with clarity or direction. Schools have historically followed this language, avoiding specific subtypes like dyslexia. This practice has left many families—like ours—confused and unsupported.

Advocates across Ontario are now pushing for change. They’re calling for early screening, evidence-based instruction, teacher training, and consistent use of the word dyslexia. Backed by the Ontario Human Rights Commission’s Right to Read inquiry, they want a system that not only identifies dyslexia early but also responds to it with timely, effective support. Because without using the word, many parents don’t know where to begin—and more importantly, children don’t understand why they’re struggling.

In my parenting and in my professional life, I use the word dyslexia. Naming it matters. It helps guide the right supports and, just as importantly, it helps highlight the strengths that come with dyslexic thinking—skills like pattern recognition, storytelling, logical reasoning, creative problem-solving, and strong visual-spatial awareness. In fact, workplaces like NASA are now actively recruiting dyslexic thinkers for their unique abilities. But if we don’t name it, parents can’t recognize these strengths in their kids. Instead, they’re left worrying about their child’s future, wondering if their disability will leave them with limited choices for their futures.

Today, Madison works with an incredible dyslexic tutor who has training in Orton Gillingham and Barton systems that are proven approaches to support dyslexic readers. This experience and learning has helped her build confidence and skills in reading and writing. When I ask Madison about those early years, she tells me that in Grade 1 and 2, she felt “dumb.” That was the heartbreaking part—watching my bright, creative child’s self-esteem slowly erode while educators insisted she was doing “just fine” and that kids all learn to read at different paces. I was shamed for asking questions—asked if we read at home, or if she had access to enough books. I can’t help but think of the many families who don’t have a background in neurodiversity or education, and how easily they’re dismissed when they bravely raise concerns.

Madison now knows she’s dyslexic. She understands her challenges and, more importantly, her strengths. That clarity and confidence wouldn’t have been possible without the right label—and without the work we’ve done to help her own her story. Using the word dyslexia helped our family find the right tools, the right people, and the right perspective. Every child deserves that same chance.

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From Grief to Growth: Starting a Therapy Practice in Honour of My Dad

I’ve wanted to be a therapist for as long as I can remember.

At 16 years old, after a fight with my high school boyfriend, I scribbled a list of life goals into my diary. Right at the top were two things: become a therapist and own my own practice. This was long before I had children of my own, before I understood how life would twist and turn, and before I knew how closely my path would align with the person who inspired it all—my dad.

There were detours, of course. I pursued a doctorate in anthropology—the study of human behaviour (so not too far off track). But eventually, I returned to those original goals. Today, I am a therapist, and I do run my own practice. Looking back, I had a clear sense of direction early on—but what drew me to therapy? And why work with children?

The answer is my dad.

My dad lived an extraordinary life considering where he came from. He grew up in a home shaped by adversity: abuse, addiction, violence, incarceration, and neglect. If you’re familiar with the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) study, you’ll know that scoring high on it correlates with many poor outcomes. My dad had a perfect ACE score. That’s not the kind of test where you want full marks.

By all accounts, my dad should not have made it. But he did. He not only survived—he thrived. He worked at IBM, married my mom (his high school sweetheart), had two children, and coached many others who needed a father figure. He became the most compassionate, empathetic, and quietly courageous man I’ve ever known.

He taught me to look for people’s stories before judging them. He believed in the good in others and never gave up on anyone. He loved unconditionally. My dad once dreamed of becoming a social worker, but when he shared that with others, they laughed at him. This made me both angry and left me with deep sadness for him. Instead, he poured his heart into volunteering, friendships, and showing up for his community. He modeled what it meant to love deeply, support a strong woman (my mom), and live with unwavering loyalty and kindness.

He was also the first person who made me see the power of early intervention. When he shared stories from his childhood—especially when drinking—I saw a boy in pain, a child who had no one to help him navigate what he was living through. And I wanted to help all the other children like him.

Research tells us that someone with my dad’s background shouldn’t have lived the life he did. But he beat the odds. How? I suspect part of it was his intelligence—he was smart, resourceful, a problem-solver. Possibly neurodivergent (We’ll never know). But more than that, he had people who loved him: a grandmother he loved, loyal friends, and a partner who loved, challenged and accepted him. And he had hockey—his outlet, his escape, his lifeline. He always said hockey and my mom saved him.

Even in his final days, my dad was still helping others. He lived each day like it might be his last, and on June 10, 2020—exactly five years ago today—he ran out of days. My world cracked open. I had three young kids and an ocean of grief I didn’t know how to navigate. He had been the healthy one in comparison to others—active, social, full of life. He didn’t deserve to go, not like that. But 15 months after his pancreatic cancer diagnosis, he was gone.

And something shifted in me.

It may be the ADHD part of my brain, but after his death, I felt no fear. The anxieties that used to hold me back evaporated. I kept thinking: What if I only have 25 years left? What do I want to do with that time?

In that clarity, I created Bloom: Child & Family Therapy.

There was no hesitation. No doubt. I just knew I had to do it. Bloom was created for children like my dad—for the kids with silent struggles, hidden pain, and immense potential. It was created to honour him.

Because of my dad, I believe in the power of healing. I believe every person—no matter their past or trauma—can move forward, grow, and thrive. He taught me to be still, to listen deeply, and to see the strength in every human being. And I carry that with me into every session, every conversation, every moment I spend with a child or family.

Five years later, I still miss him every day. But I also feel him—his lessons, his love, his legacy—woven into the work I do. Bloom isn’t just a practice. It’s a tribute. To a little boy who didn’t get the help he needed. To the man he became anyway. And to the lives we can change when we believe healing is always possible.

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Parenting with Connection: A Transformative Approach

“A healthy woman is much like a wolf: robust, chock-full, strong life force, life-giving, territorially aware, inventive, loyal, roving,” writes Clarissa Pinkola Estés in Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype.

I come back to this quote often, especially when reflecting on the experience of parenting a spirited, highly sensitive, or neurodiverse child. From my own journey—and through the stories of many other women—I know that deep gut feeling that something is different about your child. It’s an intuitive knowing, often dismissed by others. Peers, family, and institutions frequently respond with judgment: labeling it “bad behaviour” or blaming “poor parenting.”

This stigma persists in what Gary Zukav calls our “five-senses world”—a surface-level way of seeing things. It pulls us away from love and connection, and toward fear. We are warned that if we “give in” to a child’s behaviour, we’ll somehow make it worse. We’re told we need to be more strict, create firmer boundaries, push harder. The narrative becomes one of laziness, manipulation, and lack of effort.

But beneath that fear-based messaging lies something else: our collective fear of getting it wrong. Of raising a child who might leave school, struggle to find a job, or never settle into a “successful” life. And often, when others push that fear onto us, it reveals their own discomfort—especially when they see someone parenting differently. Their fear of difference becomes a mirror.

So what does that fear do to us, as parents?

Let me tell you a story.

My eldest son plays hockey. In his elementary years, he struggled with emotional regulation—particularly anger, especially when faced with perceived injustice or rejection. These are common challenges for kids with ADHD. During games, he would sometimes take a bad penalty for saying or doing something impulsive. And if you’ve ever been involved in competitive youth sports, you know that kids who show their strong, often angry emotions and act upon them are quickly labeled: “hothead,” “unreliable,” “a problem.”

At first, my husband and I followed the typical script. After a tough game, we’d come down on him for losing control. Naturally, he would lash out at us in return. The evenings were filled with meltdowns and spiraling anxiety.

I was parenting the behaviour—but my gut told me there was something deeper going on.

So I changed my approach. Instead of confronting him after a game, I started simply by asking how he felt. That one shift made a difference. He would share frustrations: a coach yelling, a teammate making a rude comment, the sting of criticism. These conversations helped me understand what was happening beneath the surface—often feelings of inadequacy or injustice.

From there, I focused on validating his emotions. We talked about how he felt about his reactions and what he might want to try next time. I explained how his actions impacted others—not to shame, but to teach. He began to learn about himself, with me as a supportive guide rather than a disciplinarian. We were still addressing behaviour, but in a way he could actually receive.

The change didn’t happen overnight. But gradually, he became more reliable on the ice. He wasn’t as easily rattled by other players or negative feedback. He still got upset sometimes—don’t we all?—but now he would come to me. He could talk about his feelings and, together, we found solutions.

This approach raised eyebrows. Some parents didn’t agree with how we handled things. But here’s what I’ve learned: any mother who parents differently than the norm will face skepticism. And that’s okay. Our job isn’t to change other people’s minds. Our job is to parent our child, the one right in front of us, using the instincts we carry as their mother.

As my confidence grew, the opinions of others mattered less. My son kept coming to me. He kept opening up. He took responsibility for his mistakes and worked to repair them—at home, at school, and in life. That’s how I knew I was on the right path.

The practice I’ve built today—supporting families and children—was born, in part, out of the experiences of raising my children. It came from learning to trust myself, to lead with love and curiosity, and to put the relationship with my child above everything else. Parenting from this place isn’t always easy, but it’s transformative.

Because when we stop parenting out of fear and start parenting from connection, we create space for our children to thrive—and for ourselves to truly lead like the wolves we are: strong, intuitive, loyal, and wild.

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Grief and Love: Navigating Loss on April’s Birthday

Today is my best friend April’s birthday. She was supposed to be 44 years old.

For as long as I can remember, I celebrated April’s birthday with her. No one could ever surprise April—she didn’t really like surprises. She told her family and friends exactly what she wanted, and she always had a plan for how she wanted to celebrate. I now admire that quality deeply. April always knew what she wanted—whether it was for her birthday, her career, or her family. She had a vision for her life and worked tirelessly to bring it to reality.

April’s 43rd birthday was the last time I would wish her a happy birthday. I called her that day, as I always did. She told me she was going out for dinner with her husband. She was at the salon getting highlights. She also mentioned she’d been having trouble eating certain foods and wasn’t sure how much she’d be able to eat that evening. She sent me pictures of their beautiful new home in the Bay Area, where she would live with her husband and their soon-to-be three-year-old son.

One month later, April was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer—the same illness that took my dad at 65, just a few years earlier.

Grief is different for everyone. It can shake you to your core, distort your beliefs, and make you reach for anything that feels stable. For me, grief comes in waves—some massive, some small—but each brings a deep, somatic pain. My already foggy, unfocused brain becomes even more clouded. I freeze. I go numb. Other times, I feel the ache physically—my body holding memories, replaying conversations on a loop. I question what I did or didn’t do, what I could have done differently. I feel like I wasn’t enough.

I want to reach out for support, but then I talk myself out of it—afraid I’ll be too much. I crave connection while wanting to disappear. These contradictions, already familiar from my life with ADHD, feel even more intense in grief.

Joan Didion, in The Year of Magical Thinking, writes about the year following her husband’s death. Her words resonate deeply with me. Because April lived in California, it’s strangely easy to “forget” that she’s gone. If you’ve never lost someone close, that may sound odd—but Didion captures it perfectly: the mind protects us from fully absorbing the reality of loss.

Almost every week, I see or hear something and think, I need to tell April about this. And then I remember. And the wave comes.

As my children grow, they ask questions about my own childhood—and almost every story involves April. I tell them about the two of us watching MuchMusic on our lunch breaks from school, hanging out in her basement listening to music, our proms and semi-formals, traveling to Quebec, Cuba, Mexico, living in Asia, moving into our dorm at university, decorating our student house—our rooms always side by side. Boyfriends, heartbreaks, late-night talks. So much of my early life was lived with her by my side.

And now, joy and grief arrive together. I laugh at a memory and cry at its absence.

Writing has often been my way through, and lately, my creative heart keeps returning to April. I write to her. I write about her. And somehow, in those words, I feel close to her again.

Love doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. Today, on her birthday, I feel that love so clearly. It lives on in the stories I tell, in the memories I carry, and in the deep ache of missing her.

Happy birthday, April. I miss you so deeply.

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Harnessing ADHD Intuition in Children for Growth

In 5th grade, I had one of my favourite teachers, Mr. B (not his real name). He was an incredible educator who truly engaged us—especially through music. I still remember all the lyrics to “If I Had a Hammer”, and whenever I hear it, I’m instantly transported back to that class. That’s no small thing, considering how few teachers I remember from school. Another vivid memory from that class is being in a portable, and—more curiously—believing that Mr. B was having an affair with one of the parent volunteers. I told my mom about it at the time, and she didn’t believe me.

Looking back, this memory often makes me reflect on something I’ve noticed in my work and in myself: people with ADHD often have an uncanny ability to pick up on things others don’t. They can sense when something’s off—when someone’s lying, being fake, or not acting with integrity. While this connection hasn’t been widely studied scientifically, my years of experience as a clinician —working with hundreds of families and children with ADHD—have shown me that this kind of intuition is remarkably common. Call it a gift or a curse, but it’s real.

ADHD has many contradictions and this is certainly one of them. We can be entirely oblivious to what’s going on around us—lost in thought, hyper-focused, or mentally checked out—but at other times be strikingly attuned. There are a few theories that attempt to explain this. Anthropological perspectives suggest that people with ADHD may be descendants of hunters and warriors—roles that required hyper-awareness and rapid environmental scanning. Another theory ties it to trauma: when you’ve faced repeated negative feedback in a world built for neurotypicals, you become hyper-alert to other people as a form of self-protection.

Integrity, then, becomes a crucial issue for those with ADHD. We are highly sensitive to inauthenticity and feel deep discomfort when people’s actions don’t align with their words. For children with ADHD, this often leads to trouble. They may call out teachers, coaches, or peers when something feels “off,” which can be misinterpreted as disrespect or defiance—especially in a society that often prioritizes obedience over honesty. Their bluntness and need for alignment between inner truth and outer action can strain relationships, particularly with adults who are uncomfortable being questioned or exposed.

In our home, my children—growing up in a neurodiverse household—are encouraged to listen to their instincts. We support them in exploring their feelings about the people in their lives, whether it’s a friend, teacher, or coach. This doesn’t mean they’re allowed to be rude, but it does mean we validate their perceptions. As a result, they’ve become confident, outspoken kids who are learning to trust their instincts while also learning when and how to temper their honesty to avoid unnecessary harm.

The real learning, though, isn’t for the children—it’s for us as adults. When a child or teen resists us, questions us, or shuts down, it’s worth asking ourselves: Are my actions aligned with my words? Children with ADHD can feel that misalignment instinctively. The adults who handle this best are the ones who are already living in integrity—they’re open, grounded, and willing to have those difficult conversations. The ones who react defensively? They’re often the ones who feel exposed.

And, in the end? I was right about Mr. B. Years later, my mom told me that he was having an affair with the parent volunteer.

Sometimes, kids with ADHD just know.

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Navigating Life Without a Script: A Journey of Self-Discovery

Looking back, I remember constantly feeling like everyone else had received some kind of manual for life—and I’d somehow missed it. It was as if teachers, parents, and coaches had whispered instructions to everyone but me. I’d blame it on my daydreaming, which I did constantly. I’d sit through lessons lost in thought, choreographing dances in my head, creating stories, planning projects. On the outside, I appeared to be listening. But inside, I was in another world—bored, disconnected, and silently struggling.

I didn’t talk about it. Somehow, I knew not to. I couldn’t quite explain it anyway.

Years later, in graduate school, I discovered the work of sociologist Erving Goffman, who wrote about the “performance of everyday life.” Finally—an explanation. Everyone, Goffman said, is performing: as children, friends, teammates, students. Life is a stage, and we’re all playing roles. But even as I absorbed this insight, something still didn’t sit right. If everyone was performing, how did they know their lines?

It wasn’t until my late 30s—after being diagnosed with ADHD-Combined type—that things really began to click. I dove headfirst into everything ADHD. That’s when I found others describing the exact feeling I’d had for decades: like there was a script everyone else had been handed, and we just… hadn’t.

I imagine it like this: a woman walks into an audition, and everyone expects her to recite lines from a script. Only—she was never given one.

That image explained so much. When I got to university, it seemed like everyone already knew about academic journal articles. I figured it was because I was the first in my family to attend university. But then I met others with similar backgrounds who did know. Was it socio-economic? Was it ADHD? I still can’t say for sure. But I know one thing: I didn’t have the script, so I faked it until I figured it out.

I have dozens of stories like this—moments where I masked confusion or mimicked others, just trying to fit in.

Through my work, research, and especially parenting neurodivergent children, I’ve come to understand that much of what I experienced wasn’t a personal failure—it was a disabling environment. The systems I moved through were designed for neurotypical brains and nervous systems. That’s not to say neurotypicals don’t perform or fake it, too. But the key difference? They’re performing from a script written with them in mind.

Take our school system. It expects children to sit still, absorb information passively, and produce it on demand—through worksheets, tests, and timed exams. For many neurodiverse learners, that’s a recipe for struggle. They often thrive with hands-on, multisensory learning—by moving, creating, experimenting, and processing on their own timeline. But instead of embracing these strengths, many schools label them as distracted, defiant, or disorganized.

It was in high school that I began to uncover an approach that worked for me. I chose projects that aligned with my interests to stay engaged. I avoided classes based heavily on memorization, knowing my working memory wouldn’t serve me well there. Without realizing it, I was accommodating my neurodiversity. I was leaning into my strengths—curiosity, creativity, and a deep love for learning.

And that’s the shift I want to emphasize.

When neurodivergent people understand how they think, feel, and learn best, they stop trying to cram themselves into someone else’s mold. They start building their own toolkit, their own pace, and yes—even their own script.

So if you’ve ever felt like you missed the instructions, like you’re always one step behind, like you’re pretending to “get it”—know that you’re not broken. You’re navigating a world that wasn’t built with you in mind.

But the beautiful part? You don’t have to keep faking it. You can start writing your own lines.