Recent

I almost didn’t write this.

Not because I don’t care—but because I care so much… and the words felt too small.

I see the pain that hate causes. I see the way some people freeze, pull back, or say nothing. And I feel myself tempted to do the same—not out of apathy, but out of reverence for just how big the issue is. I didn’t want to offer platitudes when what’s needed is presence.

But as I journaled about what was holding me back, I kept thinking about my kids.

When one of them was in pain, I offered comfort—sometimes welcomed, sometimes not. And when another had caused the pain, we’d walk through it together. We’d ask:

Is it safe? Is it kind? Is it fair?

That framework helped us return to connection and empathy. Not perfection. But love.

I believe most people mean well. They just haven’t had the chance to be close to LGBTQIA+ people—at least not knowingly. And sometimes, that’s all it takes: exposure. Presence. Realness.

I was walking the neighborhood, listening to a therapist training on a decolonized approach to attachment when my mind wandered deeper.

Let me take you on this morning’s grand meander.

I ran into my neighbor and told her how I periodically pause to think about how bizarre it is that I “own” a half-acre of planet Earth. It’s just… weird. There’s something that doesn’t feel quite right about that.

Pause. Try that on.

How can I possibly own a portion of the universe? Or any part of creation? I don’t even own this body—it moves through the phases of life whether I will it to or not.

I certainly don’t own my children. They showed me early on that they are their own beings. My role was never to claim or control them—but to guide, to influence through connection and respect. To see them as fully autonomous, creative, equal. And only then could I offer reflection, propose considerations, and support their growth.

That kind of connection took intention. And maintenance. And mutuality.

Honestly? They’ve been some of my greatest teachers.

A few weeks ago, I shared about the art of the pivot in business.
But today, I lived the art of the pivot in parenting (let’s be honest, this is most days).
If you’re raising kids who need extra support—especially neurodivergent ones—you know how often we’re asked to flex. To pivot. To respond instead of react. It’s both a dance and a discipline that we have to develop for ourselves!
Today was a classic reroute day.
I’d slept decently after a lovely 9-mile family bike ride last night and had a clear morning plan: yoga (part of my St. Jude’s fundraiser), quick house chores, and this newsletter.
Instead, I found myself helping one of my kids problem-solve a morning that had gone a bit sideways after a night that went a lot sideways. Planning, especially around sleep and transitions, is a huge challenge for him. So instead of yoga, I was out the door with him—grabbing clothes, swinging by the store for some energy support, and ensuring he got safely to work on little rest.

For the last few months, I kept telling people: I remember getting intentional about catching my youngest’s final time breastfeeding. I didn’t know the exact day it would happen—he weaned with a gentle mix of self-direction and my encouragement. But I knew I wanted to be fully present for it. And I was. It’s one of my sweetest memories. I could’ve multitasked it away, but I didn’t. So when his high school graduation approached, I carried that same intention into this milestone. Mission accomplished. I missed you all last week, but it was such a gift to know I’d created the space to savor every detail—every cap toss, every hug, every ornery ribbing and heartfelt toast. We celebrated him the way he deserved. My heart is still full. Family and friends gathered, shared food, and capped off the night with spontaneous backyard karaoke under the song of summer cicadas—the same brood that he toddled around with at age one, fists full of curiosity and bugs. We are loved and held. We are blessed.

Nature has solved for everything.

This is a common mantra in the environmental sciences.

Want to create a more efficient solar panel? Look to leaves. They gather sunlight, convert it into usable energy for an entire year—no battery backups required, no panic about cloud cover.

Want to purify water? Wetland plants and natural springs already do it.

Want vibrant, non-toxic color for your home? Study feathers. Nature’s palette is safe enough for even the tiniest bird.

This process of imitating nature—called biomimicry—has helped humans rethink and refine solutions to complex problems.

So why wouldn’t we turn to nature to solve for something as fundamental as stress?

What wild animal (in its natural environment—domestication changes things as the swaying elephants at the zoo or my tail chasing cat will tell you) regularly experiences anxiety, depression, or PTSD? It’s rare. Why? Because animals aren’t taught to override their instincts.

They do what their bodies need when stress happens.

Meanwhile, we humans create tight, artificial environments and social rules that interrupt that natural release. We surround ourselves with people who aren’t safe. We plop onto couches under artificial light, disconnected from the breeze and sun. We try to “be normal”—whatever that means.

But animals?
They get to safety.
They lick their wounds—physical and emotional.
They allow adrenaline to move through and out of their bodies.
They follow their self-healing instincts.

So what if your healing could be that intuitive?

What if you already have a lot of what you need to restore your nervous system?

Of course, our environments are more complex. And there’s a wide range of what’s “factory preset” for each of us.

But still—what shifts if you start believing that you’re wired for healing?

What if returning to nature—not just outside, but inside—was the missing key?

How might you live differently if you knew it would absolutely make a difference?

Did you ever feel like you were “too much,” “not enough,” or just never quite fit the mold?

You’re not alone.

Many neurodivergent adults—especially those raised as girls or socialized to be “good”—slipped through the cracks in childhood. Back then, we didn’t have the language. Neurodivergence was often mislabeled as a behavior issue instead of recognized as what it is: a brain wired differently.

Now? Adults are starting to realize that the struggles that made them feel awkward, bad, or broken might have had less to do with them—and more to do with an environment never designed with their needs in mind.

If you own a small business or are a solopreneur struggling right now, this message is for you.

There’s no doubt: people have pulled back on spending for anything that’s not essential right now. And that hits the wellness world extra hard—especially private-pay practices.

You’ve probably noticed I’ve been a little sporadic lately. So much is brewing in my life right now that I wanted to send a personal update this week—my rhythm will return soon.

My son is in his final month of high school—final projects, award ceremonies, prom . . . all the glorious (and bittersweet) things. I keep reminding myself I’m not the one who has to be stressed. Our bodies remember finals week like muscle memory, right?! If you’ve ever had one of those dreams where a paper is due and you forgot about it until 3 hours before—it’s like that.

I should have known there was a term for this.

My child with support and advocacy needs would need some extra special attention because the world was overwhelming his nervous system and then I would wrap everything I knew to do around him, up to and including new professionals, dietary changes, new environments/schools, whatever it took. I am a person who makes things happen, after all.

And each time, just as things seemed to be settling . . .

I call us parents of kids with advocacy and support needs. Others call us parent caregivers. Whatever the label, it’s a full-time job—before you even add on your paying job, household management, and, well… everything else.

There were phases to my job:

Before diagnosis: I swung between feeling like I was failing my child (why was he so emotional all the time?) and briefly wondering if the judgmental voices were right—maybe I wasn’t disciplining enough. Thankfully, my child made it very clear each time that was not the problem (ha!)