Tag: fiery

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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.

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Raising a Different Kind of Baby: Lessons from the Start

At the time of my son’s birth, what I knew about babies came from being an older sister to a brother six years younger, the babysitting I’d done as a teenager, and my co-op and later part-time job in a daycare. This meant I didn’t really know much about newborns. Still, from what I did know—and what I had read—they were supposed to sleep after birth, worn out from the trials and tribulations of the birthing process. At least, that’s what I thought…

On November 1, 2009, I gave birth to my son, Wesley. He was 10 days late. My water had to be broken in the hospital. After 12 hours of labor, I was only 2 cm dilated, and Wesley was in distress. I was losing oxygen and shaking. I was rushed in for an emergency c-section.

That night, after all the commotion of his birth, Wesley lay beside me—wide awake—staring straight up at the ceiling. I remember thinking, Aren’t babies supposed to sleep after birth? Even just for a few hours? What I didn’t know in that moment, and only realize looking back, is that this was my first true introduction to life with Wesley.

Wesley was not like the other children I had been around. He wasn’t difficult—just different. Different in a way that was unfamiliar to me.

He would cry when I wasn’t close, but he hated being swaddled and didn’t want to be held too tightly. I would fall asleep with him face to face, his little hand wrapped around my finger, our foreheads touching. He’d sleep for short stretches, then wake to nurse, and take ages to fall back asleep. He loved being outside in the stroller—or walking around the mall. He was happiest around others and always moving. He seemed to carry this restless energy, like he had already been here in a past life and was just waiting for his body to catch up so he could get going.

Wesley has been my greatest teacher.

That’s not to say I haven’t learned from my other children—I have, and I continue to. But Wesley, as my first, is the reason I began this journey: learning and growing as a neurodiverse parent raising neurodiverse children. He’s also the reason I became a professional who now helps other women and their children find their way as they parent their highly sensitive, spirited, or neurodiverse child.

These are the kids whose sparks we want to protect—their energy, their determination. But they often struggle in our modern world. Traditional parenting didn’t teach us how to nurture their strengths. I had to learn from others, learn on my own, and, more often than not, trust my instincts—especially when the advice of others just didn’t fit.

I’m so incredibly grateful for Wesley and everything he’s taught me. I often say to parents whose children are challenging them in ways that make them take a hard look at themselves, “This child is your greatest teacher.”I say that because of Wesley—because of us—because of our story.