Tag: motherhood

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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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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.