Tag: education

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.