Tag: children

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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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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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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.