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I chose this image because the small, glowing compartments feel symbolic of how the holidays live inside us. Each box like a pocket of stored memory, sensation, association, or emotion, some remembered consciously and others carried quietly beneath the surface. The holiday season tends to amplify whatever we carry. Our joy, our tenderness, our grief, our expectations, and the stories we have inherited about what this time of year is supposed to feel like. Even for those who love the holidays, there is often a sense of intensity or emotional activation that arrives long before the decorations go up. As a therapist, and as someone who has had a complex relationship with this season, I have spent years paying attention to why the holidays feel so emotionally charged for so many of us. What I have learned personally and professionally is this: The holidays live in the body just as much as they live in the mind. The sights, sounds, smells, and rituals of this season act as sensory anchors. They bring forward memories, expectations, family patterns, and emotional imprints we may not consciously think about the rest of the year. The Body Remembers Seasonal Cues Holiday cues are highly specific: scents like pine or cinammon cold air certain songs certain foods familiar decorations repeated routines and gatherings Because these cues show up once a year and often arrive all at once, our bodies respond strongly. For many, these sensory signals activate emotional memories, both tender and painful. You might notice: a tightening in your chest pressure in your throat a dip in your stomach a wave of nostalgia a sense of overwhelm a longing you cannot name These responses are often somatic echoes of earlier experiences. Why the Holidays Feel Layered From a nervous system perspective, the holidays combine several activating elements: 1. Old Family Patterns Dynamics, roles, and expectations often resurface, even if we are decades into adulthood. The body remembers how it once had to adapt. 2. Sensory Memory Holiday cues act like emotional time capsules. A scent, a song, or a decoration can transport us back to moments we did not realize were still alive inside us. 3. Transitions and Comparison The end of the year naturally stirs reflection. We often compare where we are to where we hoped to be. 4. Cultural Pressure The collective expectation of joy, harmony, and celebration can intensify whatever feels unsettled inside us. 5. Financial and Emotional Labor The invisible work of the season planning, coordinating, gifting, hosting, and navigating different households can feel like a full-time job. 6. Tenderness and Memory Even positive memories can stir grief. Holidays remind us of people who are no longer here, of versions of ourselves we have outgrown, and of chapters that have closed. All of this happens in the body, often before our minds catch up. If the Holidays Feel Complicated, You Are Not Alone Many people do not talk about how layered the holidays can be. The season often brings up both the parts of us that remember joy and the parts that remember tension or loss. It is common to feel mixed emotions or to feel like your internal experience does not match the energy of the season around you. The holidays often hold paired truths: excitement and overwhelm gratitude and grief connection and loneliness nostalgia and discomfort anticipation and dread This does not mean something is wrong with you. It means your body holds a story. Three Somatic Practices for This Season If you notice yourself becoming activated as the holidays approach, here are three gentle practices that can help: 1. Pause and Orient Look around the room and name: 3 things you see 2 things you hear 1 thing you feel Orientation brings you back into the present moment and signals safety to your nervous system. 2. Name What Is Here Acknowledging your internal experience helps regulate your system. Try saying: Something in me feels overwhelmed. My chest feels tight. It makes sense I am feeling this. Naming creates space inside the experience. 3. Choose One Value to Guide You This Season Instead of trying to manage everything, choose one value connection, creativity, rest, simplicity, presence and let it guide your choices. Ask yourself: What matters most to me this holiday season? This question will become increasingly important as the series continues. A Closing Reflection As we enter the holidays, you may notice old patterns, memories, or emotions surfacing. Rather than pushing past your experience or forcing yourself into a mood that does not feel true, see if you can approach your internal world with gentleness. You do not need to solve your relationship with the holidays. You only need to meet it with honesty. ✨Next week, I will be exploring gratitude the kind that supports the nervous system rather than bypassing what is real.

Family enmeshment is often mistaken for closeness. It’s a pattern where emotional boundaries blur, and individuality becomes secondary to belonging. Love feels fused with responsibility. Connection feels conditional on harmony. Over time, the pressure to maintain that closeness can make it hard to know what you want, need, or even feel. There’s a tender line between closeness and fusion, between love and loss of self. This is the landscape of family enmeshment, where our sense of “me” becomes wrapped inside the “we.” What Is Family Enmeshment? Family enmeshment happens when the lines between people become blurred. Love and loyalty are present, but they come with invisible strings, an unspoken expectation that everyone feels the same, believes the same, or stays close no matter what. In these families, emotional boundaries are soft or nonexistent. You might know how everyone else is feeling but struggle to name what’s true for you. You might feel responsible for another person’s happiness or guilty for having needs of your own. This kind of closeness can look caring from the outside, but it often comes at a cost. Instead of being encouraged to grow into your full self, you learn to keep the peace, to stay agreeable, to shrink or shine just enough to maintain connection. As family therapist Salvador Minuchin once described, enmeshment is a form of “diffuse boundaries.” It’s when the family functions as a single emotional unit, leaving little room for individuality. Murray Bowen’s work on differentiation of self expands on this idea, reminding us that healthy relationships allow both connection and autonomy. In enmeshed systems, autonomy can feel like betrayal. The message, spoken or not, is stay close, stay the same, stay safe. But healthy connection doesn’t require losing yourself. In fact, true closeness thrives when each person has room to be whole. How to Recognize Enmeshment in Your Family In an enmeshed system, love and guilt often live side by side. You may have grown up believing that being a “good” daughter, son, or partner meant keeping everyone else comfortable. That harmony was safety, and your truth was too heavy. Below are gentle reflection questions to help you notice whether these patterns live in you. For each, you might simply notice whether it feels often , sometimes , or rarely true. I feel guilty when I say no to a family member. I struggle to name what I want or need without considering others first. I often feel responsible for another person’s emotions or well-being. I fear that being different will cause distance or disapproval. I have trouble identifying what I value apart from my family’s expectations. I feel more comfortable meeting others’ needs than recognizing my own. I can’t always tell where my feelings end and another’s begin. I tend to apologize for having limits or preferences. I sometimes feel invisible, even in close relationships. I notice I’m most at ease when others are okay, even if I’m not. There’s no score here, only awareness. Healing from enmeshment begins with noticing what resonates and honoring your internal data: sensations, emotions, and truth. The Cost of Enmeshment: Losing Track of the Self Our self is made of many living parts.It is our essence , the unique energetic fingerprint we were born with.It is our temperament , the rhythm that comes naturally to us.It is our values , the beliefs and principles that anchor our choices.It is our needs, feelings, desires, likes, and dislikes , the internal compass that keeps us aligned.It is our capacity to choose, to create, to feel. Together, these threads form our humanity. In enmeshed family systems, that humanity often goes unseen. We learn to suppress what’s inconvenient, soften what’s bright, or disappear altogether. Our internal landscape becomes organized around others, around caretaking, managing, fixing, or performing. Over time, we may forget what it feels like to simply be. Disconnection from Our Humanity Our self is not just psychological. It’s sacred. It’s the living pulse of our humanity.When that humanity isn’t mirrored, it begins to dim. In many enmeshed families, people are not met as humans with limits and emotions but as roles. You might have been the achiever, the caretaker, the peacekeeper, or the trophy, the one who held the family’s pride or stability. You might have been valued for what you did, not who you are. This kind of objectification is subtle. You might be celebrated and unseen at the same time. When love is conditional on what you provide, you begin to internalize that your worth lives outside of you. You may feel like a symbol of pride or proof rather than a person who feels, falters, and needs. To survive that, many of us disconnect from our humanity, from the tenderness, vulnerability, and limits that make us human. But the truth is: your humanity was never the problem. It’s the portal back home. Healthy Individuation: What It Could Have Been Individuation is the developmental process that allows us to become an individual while remaining connected.In healthy families, caregivers support this natural separation. They encourage exploration, voice, and self-expression while staying emotionally available. This is how we learn that we can be ourselves and still belong. In enmeshed systems, individuation threatens the structure. The message becomes: “Don’t change, don’t leave, don’t need.” Parents or caregivers who never developed a strong sense of self may unconsciously rely on their children to meet their emotional needs or fulfill their sense of worth. The child’s autonomy becomes unsafe, even disloyal. As adults, we might recreate those dynamics, over-functioning in relationships, losing ourselves in love, or confusing connection with control. Healing means learning that differentiation doesn’t destroy love. It deepens it. Healing from Enmeshment: Locating the Me in the We Healing begins with remembering that you are a whole person, separate and connected, worthy and free.You might start by asking: What do I value, apart from what I was taught to value? What does my body tell me when I agree to something I don’t want to do? Where do I end and someone else begin? What does safety feel like when I’m being authentic? One of the ways I’ve started to question my own motivation within systems, family, community, and work, is by asking: Am I doing this out of fear or out of care? Fear moves from obligation, guilt, or the need to keep the peace. Care moves from love, integrity, and alignment. Both can look similar on the outside but feel entirely different on the inside. That simple question helps me locate myself again, to pause, breathe, and choose from truth rather than pattern. Notice what happens in your body as you reflect. Maybe your chest tightens or your jaw softens. These sensations are doorways back to your humanity. Healing requires boundaries but also compassion. Beneath enmeshment is usually love, fear, and longing tangled together. The work is not to sever connection but to create space for your self within it. When you begin to locate the me inside the we , you reclaim your right to exist as a whole human: separate, connected, and free to love without losing yourself. A Closing Reflection Your self is not selfish. It’s sacred. The more you honor your humanity, the more capable you become of true connection. When we learn to stand whole inside the web of our relationships, we don’t abandon the “we.” We simply bring a fuller “me” to it.

An image of the fawn response — over-attunement, readiness to please, scanning for safety. With awareness, this vigilance can soften into connection. When Safety Replaced Self In my practice, one of the behavioral patterns I see most often, especially among women and trauma survivors, is the fawn response. It is often mistaken for kindness or empathy, but it is really a trauma response and nervous system adaptation, a way to stay safe by keeping others comfortable. “Our behaviors might appear to be people pleasing, but they aren’t about pleasing at all. The chronic fawner just wants to exist as safely as possible.”— Dr. Ingrid Clayton, Believing Me This difference matters. People pleasing sounds voluntary. Fawning is instinctive. It is the body’s attempt to secure connection when connection once felt unsafe. Therapist and author Pete Walker , who coined the term fawn response within the context of complex trauma, defines it as a survival strategy to avoid conflict and ensure safety by mirroring, appeasing, or placating others. In essence, it is a learned reflex: If I can keep you happy, I will be safe. The Cost of Aligning with Power As children, many of us learned that survival meant prioritizing someone else’s comfort over our truth. We aligned with caregivers, silenced needs, softened anger, and smoothed over tension to avoid rejection or punishment. Safety became synonymous with compliance. As adults, this early conditioning can translate into a deep fear of being disliked or misunderstood. We may feel guilty for setting limits or experience an almost visceral discomfort with saying no. Conflict becomes something to be avoided at all costs, and with it, our ability to advocate for ourselves, express our emotions, or name when something feels off also fades. This ongoing pattern of fawning often leads to chronic self doubt, over apology, and difficulty trusting our own preferences. We may confuse peacekeeping with peace and mistake control or appeasement for connection. Beneath nearly every fawning pattern lives a quiet ache: the need to be chosen, to belong, even if it means disconnecting from ourselves. How Fawning Hides at Work The fawn response is not limited to our personal lives. It often follows us into the professional world, quietly shaping how we lead, collaborate, and communicate. In workplaces, fawning can show up as agreeing to take on more than feels sustainable, avoiding confrontation with supervisors, or striving to be liked more than respected. It can also appear as fear of changing policies, discomfort with giving feedback, or avoidance of networking because asking for help feels like a burden. In leadership roles, fawning might look like over accommodating employees, hesitating to set clear expectations, or feeling guilty for asserting authority. For entrepreneurs, coaches, and clinicians, it often shows up as urgency in responding to clients, apologizing for every inconvenience, or softening professional boundaries to maintain approval. Over time, these patterns lead to resentment, exhaustion, and a disconnection from authentic authority. For women especially, this behavior is reinforced by cultural norms that reward warmth, cheerfulness, and emotional labor. Anger or assertiveness are often mislabeled as “unhappy,” “difficult,” or “too much.” So we smile instead. We disconnect from anger, which is the natural energy of boundary —the inner signal that says something about this does not feel right, I need space, I need respect. When that energy is suppressed, we lose access to the instinct that protects what matters. We begin to confuse compliance with compassion and quiet with peace. But anger, when integrated, is not the enemy of kindness; it is the guardian of integrity. It helps us know where we end and another begins, and it allows relationships and workplaces to operate from honesty rather than performance. Healing as Self Leadership Recovery from the fawn response is not about becoming harder or detached. It is about becoming the leader of your own nervous system as the guide, nurturer, and protector you always needed. Healing begins by cultivating internal safety so that authenticity no longer feels threatening. In therapy, this work often involves learning to listen to your body and recognize sensations as information. Tightness may signal no, while warmth may signal yes. It means practicing safe expression and giving yourself permission to voice needs, feelings, and truths that once felt dangerous. It also includes reorienting toward desire by asking gentle questions like: What do I want? What feels true for me? What would it mean to honor that? This is the heart of somatic therapy : helping the body unlearn the reflex of appeasement and remember that safety can come from within. Over time, you begin to experience the difference between forced harmony and genuine peace. You remember that boundaries protect connection, not destroy it. The Courage to Disappoint As we reclaim self leadership , we learn that the willingness to disappoint others is often required to stay true to ourselves. Boundaries are not walls; they are doors that open from authenticity. When safety lives inside you, belonging no longer requires self betrayal. Healing, then, is not about perfection or performance. It is about remembering that you can be safe and sovereign, kind and clear, connected and free. Recommended Reading If you are interested in exploring the fawn response more deeply, these books offer compassionate and accessible insight into complex trauma, emotional recovery, and the journey of coming home to yourself: Dr. Ingrid Clayton, Fawning: Why the Need to Please Makes Us Lose Ourselves—and How to Find Our Way Back Clayton’s newest book dives specifically into the fawn response, examining how early survival strategies of appeasement and people pleasing evolve into patterns of self-abandonment. Through research, clinical experience, and personal narrative, she offers tools for recognizing these patterns and rebuilding safety, sovereignty, and self-trust. Pete Walker, Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving A foundational text on understanding complex trauma and the four trauma responses—fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. Walker’s work offers language, validation, and practical guidance for reconnecting with the authentic self after long-term survival conditioning. Dr. Ingrid Clayton, Believing Me: Healing from Narcissistic Abuse and Complex Trauma A powerful blend of memoir and psychology that explores trauma bonding, self-betrayal, and the process of reclaiming identity and truth after narcissistic abuse. Clayton helps readers understand why fawning often masquerades as kindness and how healing begins with believing our own story.

A reflection on healing, compassion, and the permission to rest When Life Says Stop Sometimes the body whispers: an ache, a fatigue, a weight that reminds us we’ve been carrying too much . Other times it speaks in a full stop. For me, that moment came partway through a painting project. One small movement, one sharp pull in my mid back, and the weekend’s plans were gone. The brushes, the paint cans, the excitement all paused in an instant. At first, I felt frustrated. I wanted to finish what I started. I told myself I should have known better. I replayed the moment over and over, looking for where I went wrong. But what I learned that week had less to do with my back and more to do with how I meet myself when life says no. This unexpected pause became a classroom for something deeper: learning to rest through stillness. When the Body Becomes the Teacher Sometimes the hardest work is learning to meet ourselves with kindness, right where we are. Our bodies are wise communicators. Pain and exhaustion are not enemies to conquer; they are messages asking for relationship. When we override them, we reinforce the old conditioning that tells us rest must be earned and that our worth is tied to what we produce or how much we can hold. The body’s language is honest. It speaks the truth before our minds catch up. It tells us when we have reached capacity, when we need warmth, when it is time to come home to ourselves. Listening inward, without judgment or urgency, is an act of radical compassion. It is not self-indulgent; it is self-honoring. And yet, slowing down can feel disorienting. Many of us have been taught that stillness equals stagnation or that rest is something we deserve only when everything else is done. But healing, like nature, happens in cycles of movement and stillness, effort and ease. Learning to rest through stillness means trusting that quiet seasons are not wasted ones. When Creative Energy Has Nowhere to Go One of the hardest parts of being forced to stop was the energy that could not move. My mind and body had been alive with creativity, color palettes, layout ideas, and the joyful hum of making something new with my daughter. Suddenly, all of that energy had nowhere to land. It is a strange tension: feeling inspired but physically unable to act on it. Maybe you have felt it too, the frustration of creative momentum meeting an unexpected wall. So I began to experiment with new ways for the energy to move. I wrote. I visualized. I made digital mockups instead of painting real walls. I dreamed from the couch and let my imagination do what my body could not. That is when I realized something important: creativity does not live only in motion. It also lives in reflection, imagination, and rest. When we slow down, our creativity does not disappear. It composts. It transforms beneath the surface, preparing to grow in new ways. Sitting with the Mess spilled paint to symbolize the messy middle As I sat in that stillness, the environment around me told a very different story. The room I had begun to transform was half-finished, with paint cans in corners and piles of books and clothes covering the floor. The order I usually keep in my home and within myself had given way to visible chaos. It was humbling to sit in that space, surrounded by evidence of incompletion, and not try to fix it. Every instinct wanted to tidy, to organize, to restore control. But my body would not let me. In a culture that prizes productivity and composure, living in the messy middle can feel unbearable. We are taught that outer order equals inner peace, that tidiness proves worthiness. But sometimes the healing happens right there, in the piles, in the pause, in the permission to let it be unfinished. So instead of trying to manage the outer chaos, I turned toward the inner one. I noticed how the mess made me feel: the impatience, the shame, the discomfort. And I tended there, with breath, with compassion, with quiet acknowledgment that it was okay for things to be undone, both around me and within me. Meeting the Inner Critic with Compassion Of course, slowing down does not always feel peaceful. The inner critic often has a lot to say. It may tell us we are lazy. It might whispers that we have messed up, that we are falling behind, that we have made things harder for everyone else.These voices usually echo early messages, the cultural, familial, or religious rules that told us who and how to be in order to belong. When we meet these voices with curiosity instead of resistance, something softens. We start to see that the critic is often trying to protect us, to keep us safe from shame or rejection. Compassion does not silence the critic. It changes the conversation .It sounds like: “This isn’t a failure. It’s feedback. My body is showing me what it needs, and I can respond with kindness.” This is the heart of somatic healing, learning to meet inner conflict with warmth instead of willpower. When we meet ourselves with compassion, we create enough safety to let go of the old rules and listen for what we truly need. Receiving Help as a Practice of Love Asking for help has not come easily to me. I am used to being capable, independent, and strong because growing up I had no other option. But this week, I could not even move a paint can. So I asked for help. Painters came to finish the project. My family rearranged what I could not. My clients received reschedules and understanding. Every ask felt vulnerable, but it also felt real and I knew deeply was an opportunity for healing, I reminded myself that allowing others to show up for me is not a failure of strength. It is a deep expression of trust. Sometimes love sounds like “I need help.” Sometimes strength looks like letting someone else carry the brush. This, too, is permission to rest. Writing Your Own Permission Slip One of the most healing things we can do is give ourselves the permission no one else ever gave us. Here is a simple practice: Title it: My Permission Slip Then complete the sentence "I give myself permission to...." Complete this as many times as you need and feel free to borrow from the examples below. I give myself permission to rest. I give myself permission to ask for help. I give myself permission to say no or set a boundary. I give myself permission to feel joy without needing to earn it. I give myself permission to be human. This simple act of writing interrupts the old narratives of worthiness and control. It tells your nervous system, “I am allowed to stop.” You can keep it on your desk, beside your bed, or anywhere you forget that permission is yours to give. Compassion as the Doorway to Permission Stillness is rarely convenient, but it is often sacred. It calls us back to ourselves, back to the truth that we were never meant to perform our way into love. Compassion is the doorway to permission. And permission is the doorway to freedom. When we stop pushing and start listening, when we let the body lead, we remember where strength really comes from. So the next time your body says stop, maybe it is not working against you. Maybe it is showing you the way home. 🪶 Inspired by a personal reflection originally shared in my newsletter. I f you would like more letters like this, filled with reflections on somatic healing, boundaries, and the practice of being human, you can subscribe here at the bottom of my homepage→ .

What is imposter syndrome? At its simplest, imposter syndrome is the internal experience of doubting your competence or worthiness despite evidence that you are capable, skilled, and qualified. It often comes with a sense that you have fooled others into believing in you, and at any moment you will be found out. But imposter syndrome is rarely just about competence. It is about vulnerability, safety, belonging, and voice. It is about whether you feel secure enough to be seen, whether you believe what you have to share matters, and whether you trust that your presence has a place. The Inner Voices We Hear Imposter syndrome often speaks through the inner critic: Who am I to speak when there are so many others more qualified? Who am I to make art when there are so many artists? Who am I to try when I could fail? Sometimes these voices are protective. Their message is, If I can keep you away from the edge, I can keep you safe from rejection. They may not always be kind, but they are often trying to shield us from risk. Is It Really Imposter Syndrome? When I hear that voice rise up, I have learned to pause and ask myself a different question: Is this really imposter syndrome, or is it something else asking for my attention? Is this imposter syndrome, or is this the result of systemic bias or the quiet but powerful messages that tell people of color, LGBTQ+ folks, women and those with marginalized identities that their expertise must constantly be proven? Is this imposter syndrome, or is this unprocessed shame from childhood, whispering that I am not enough? Is this imposter syndrome, or is this an old rejection wound , reminding me of the sting of being left out? Is this imposter syndrome, or is this the echo of abandonment , still tugging at my nervous system for belonging? When we broaden the lens, we begin to see that what gets labeled imposter syndrome is often a collection of systemic forces, inherited narratives, and tender old wounds. Naming them helps us move away from self-blame and toward compassion. Instead of forcing ourselves to just push through, we can tend to the roots. When Imposter Syndrome Becomes a Guide Even in my own life, imposter syndrome sometimes acts as a guide. When I feel that tightening and wonder, Am I ready? Am I qualified? I pause and check in. I can go back to my training and to the years of study and experience that remind me I am not starting from nothing. I can lean on my resume and the evidence of what I have already done. And if the feeling still lingers, I ask: Is this a place where I truly need more growth or support? Sometimes the answer is yes. I may need more practice, mentorship, or skill-building. Other times, the honest answer is no. I have done enough. I am ready. What I need is not more training but more trust. This self-check turns imposter syndrome into a tool for integrity. It helps us discern whether the voice of doubt is signaling a genuine need for growth or simply echoing old fear. Either way, it becomes an opportunity to meet ourselves with honesty and care. Learning to Stay With the Feeling There have been many moments when I almost said no. Invitations to teach, to lead a training, to share what I know. Each time, the flutter of Who am I to do this? would rise. What I was really being asked was not to be perfectly confident. It was to tolerate the feeling, to pause and tend to it, and to anchor in the safety I have built through secure relationships and self-trust. I felt it when I stepped into private practice after years of working for others. I feel it now as a mother when I walk my children through their theater auditions, steadying them, resourcing them, reminding them that nerves and doubts are not a verdict but part of being human. The goal is not to erase the inner critic. It is to pause and ask: Is this true? Is it real? Do I want to listen? Is it protecting me? If so, what do I need? When we treat our doubt this way, we work with it instead of letting it run the show. Standing at the Growth Edge For me, imposter syndrome has shown up most clearly as I have built my practice. I moved from being told what to do, the classic teacher’s pet, into creating my own systems, sharing my own voice, and stepping into leadership. There is a trembling that comes with being visible, with naming myself as a guide or an expert, and with daring to take up space. And yet that trembling is not proof that I am not ready. It is evidence that I am standing at a growth edge, a threshold where fear and courage mingle. Reframing the Question Instead of asking: Who am I to speak? What if we asked: Who am I not to? Instead of thinking: What if I am not good enough? What if we wondered: Who might be waiting for this in the exact way only I can offer it? Instead of treating the critic’s voice as a verdict, what if we treated it as an invitation to slow down, to get curious, and to tend to the parts of us that still long for safety and belonging? An Invitation Perhaps imposter syndrome is not proof that you are inadequate, but evidence that you are standing at your edge, that sacred place where growth, courage, and authenticity meet. If you hear the voice rising in you, pause. Ask what it is really saying. And then, when you are ready, step forward. Not because you have silenced the doubt completely, but because your voice, your presence, your art, and your heart truly matter.

This morning, as I sit wrapped in my bathrobe sipping tea in the quiet, I am reminded of just how much I love this simple garment. I have a robe for every season: thick fleece for winter, light cotton for summer, a plush midweight for fall. Each one offers something different in warmth, texture, and softness, but they all anchor me in the same thing: comfort. Back in college, a friend and I came up with something we called a-robe-ics. It was our tongue-in-cheek version of aerobics. We had grown up with Jane Fonda in her neon leotards and Suzanne Somers with her glossy workout routines, all promising that with enough sweat and sculpting we could be better, tighter, stronger. So of course, in our own coming of age way, we invented the opposite. Our routine required no effort at all. The only choreography was wearing your robe. Instead of lunges and crunches, we were lounging and laughing. Instead of striving, we were softening. This was 1998/1999, long before self-care became a hashtag. We did not know it then, but we were a little ahead of our time. What looked like laziness was actually radical rest. What sounded like a joke was our bodies reaching for nervous system regulation. We thought it was funny, but it was also quietly rebellious. It said you do not have to perform to be enough. You do not have to hustle to earn comfort. Looking back now, I see a-robe-ics as one of my earliest nervous system practices. It gave me permission to pause, to soften, and to be held by something as simple as fabric against my skin. Comfort is not indulgence. True comfort is regulation. It is choosing softness over striving and presence over performance. But here is the question I often ask myself and my clients: Is the thing bringing you comfort truly soothing, or is it only numbing? Food, scrolling, research rabbit holes, or leaning too heavily on others can bring temporary relief, but when they are our only doorway to comfort, we end up more dysregulated when those doors close. True comfort steadies us whether we are alone or with others. For me, comfort begins with the senses. The fleece of my robe across my shoulders, the weight of its belt tied snug around my waist, the smell of coffee brewing or banana bread in the oven, the cool air that greets me when I open the door on a fall morning. Comfort might come through sound like soft music playing or my children’s laughter, or through touch like placing my hands gently on my heart and belly, offering myself a nervous system hug. Sometimes it is co-regulating with a pet, asking my partner for an embrace, or booking a facial simply because having my face held feels like being tenderly mothered. During the pandemic, I began offering online bathrobe sessions, short live chats where I showed up unpolished, in my robe, to ask how others were coping. It felt radical to be seen without performance, to let people in on the messiness, to normalize the need for comfort. Those mornings affirmed that comfort is not frivolous. It is a lifeline. So today, I invite you into your own round of a-robe-ics. Think of it as the gentlest workout you will ever do. The uniform is fleece, the soundtrack is silence or soft laughter, and the goal is not a tighter core but a well tended nervous system. If you are not sure where to start, here are a few ways to orient toward comfort and self-soothing: Touch: Wrap yourself in something soft, place your hands on your heart and belly, or try a weighted or heated blanket. Smell: Light a favorite candle, bake something familiar, or step outside and notice the air. Sight: Soften the lights, gaze at something beautiful, or create a small corner that feels cozy and safe. Sound: Play gentle music, listen to nature, or simply notice the quiet. Connection: Snuggle a pet, ask for a hug, or practice offering yourself the comfort you might usually seek from another. Notice what genuinely settles you, not just what distracts you. These small practices can become anchors, helping your nervous system find steadiness in daily life. And maybe, just maybe, we were onto something back in 1999. What started as a joke between two college girls in their bathrobes has become a lifelong practice. Radical rest. Nervous system nourishment. The reminder that sometimes the most forward thinking thing you can do is return to comfort, right here, right now.

This morning at the gym, my trainer stood close as I pushed through the last few difficult reps of a set. I doubted myself and I wanted to quit. Her hand hovered just under the bar, not lifting it, simply there in case. Later she reminded me that she had not actually lifted the weight at all. What made all the difference was knowing she was right there for me. This got me thinking about the power of presence and attunement. We are stronger when another is willing to witness us in our struggle and hold space for our experience. The simple act of being held in presence steadies and strengthens us. Again and again, I hear stories of how painful it can be to feel misunderstood, unseen, or unheard. Most of us can recall times when we were feeling distressed and reached out to someone in vulnerability, only to be met with advice, attempts to cheer us up, questions, minimization or distraction. Even when well-intended, those responses can leave us feeling more isolated than connected. Why We Default to Fixing (or Questioning, Invalidating, Avoiding) When we sit with another’s pain, we also feel it echo inside of us. It might stir our own unease, bring up memories of times we were not supported, or simply activate our nervous system in ways that feel hard to tolerate. In those moments, fixing can feel like relief. If I give you an answer, or point you toward a solution, then maybe both of us can feel better more quickly. Culturally, many of us have been taught that our value comes from what we do, what we produce, and how quickly we can solve problems. When someone shares their struggle, silence can feel unbearable. We rush to fill it with advice, questions, or solutions because doing feels safer than simply being. And when we are unsure what to say, we may pull away, avoiding the discomfort altogether, rather than stay with something that has no quick answer. All of this is deeply human. These reflexes often come from care, from wanting to ease suffering. But the paradox is that true connection does not come from speeding things up or making discomfort disappear. It comes from slowing down, staying present, and allowing what is here to simply be. That is the work of witnessing. The Practice of Noticing One of the most powerful ways to begin shifting out of fixing and into witnessing is by practicing awareness in your own body. For a week, or even just a couple of days, try noticing what happens inside you when someone you care about is struggling. When a colleague shares about a hard season, when a friend is upset, when your partner is wrestling with a problem, or when your child is facing a challenge, pause and pay attention. What stirs in your body? Does your heart begin to race? Do you feel a pit in your stomach? Is there an impulse to jump in with words, or to pull away? Do you notice a part of you that wants to rescue, solve, or reassure quickly? Instead of moving immediately into action, see if you can simply hold this tension for a moment. Notice the sensations. Witness your own urge to fix. Because the practice of witnessing begins with self. Here is the deeper truth. When we rush in to rescue, we may unintentionally send subtle messages. Our action can communicate, “You cannot handle this on your own.” Or our solution can land as criticism, as if we are saying, “You are doing it wrong, let me show you how.” Fixing can also send another signal: that what you are feeling is not acceptable, that it needs to be changed. This often creates more stress, not less. Witnessing offers something entirely different: your experience makes sense, and you matter. We can begin to shift this by checking in more directly with the people around us. Ask: What do you need right now? Do you want me to just listen? To witness? To validate? Or are you actually looking for advice or concrete support? One of the most useful lessons I ever received from a mentor was this: unsolicited advice is criticism. At first, hearing this created agitation in my own system. I had built so much of my identity around being helpful that it was hard to hear that my “help” could sometimes land as harm. My own history also shaped the way I relate to struggle. I grew up with a high level of adversity and inconsistent support, and that left me with an internal conflict. When I see my children wrestle, I often feel the urge to rescue or fix so they can have more comfort than I did. But over time, I have learned that stepping in too quickly can land as subtle rejection, as if I am saying, “You are not capable.” So I practice pausing, holding the tension in my own body, and asking instead: Would you like my help, or would you rather figure it out on your own? More often than not, they want the space to struggle through it, knowing I am there if needed. Just like my trainer in the gym, my presence matters more than taking over. Because learning and resilience happen in the struggle. And rescuing is not the opposite of ignoring. The opposite is being attuned, present, and in relationship to. What Witnessing Looks Like Witnessing lives in the realm of being rather than doing. It does not require answers or strategies. Instead, it asks us to slow down, soften, and stay present. Resmaa Menakem, in My Grandmother’s Hands , reminds us that healing begins in the body. Practices like mindful breathing, settling, and simply noticing sensations allow us to be with another person without needing to shift or change their experience. Simple practices can make a profound difference: Mirroring : Reflecting back someone’s words so they feel heard (a core practice in Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg). Validation : Naming what you notice (“That sounds really heavy,” or “It makes sense you would feel that way”). Attunement : Deb Dana’s work on the Polyvagal Ladder shows us that co-regulation happens when one nervous system signals safety to another. Just your calm presence can be healing. Witnessing communicates, I see you. You make sense. You are not alone. Why Witnessing Heals Brené Brown writes in Atlas of the Heart that connection requires us to be seen and known for who we really are. When we witness instead of fix, question, invalidate, or avoid, we create that possibility. The nervous system relaxes, defenses soften, and connection deepens. Being seen as we are, even in struggle, reminds us of our inherent worth and opens space for healing. Solutions may come later, but presence often matters most in the moment. A Simple Practice Next time someone shares something vulnerable: Pause before responding. Notice your urge to fix, question, or minimize. Try instead to reflect what you heard or simply acknowledge the feeling. You may be surprised at how this deepens connection, sometimes more than any solution ever could.

The Wins That No One Sees There are moments in healing that go completely unnoticed. They may not look like much on the outside, but inside, something shifts. You set a boundary. You pause instead of reacting. You feel your sadness instead of pushing through. You say no when you’ve spent a lifetime saying yes. There is no confetti. No chorus of “I’m proud of you.” Sometimes, there’s even pushback. You might feel the discomfort of someone’s disappointment, the ache of being misunderstood, or the stillness that follows a big internal change. But just because no one else sees it does not mean it isn’t worth honoring. Why It Can Feel Uncomfortable to Celebrate Yourself If you’ve learned to be high-functioning, to anticipate needs, and to keep moving, then slowing down to feel your progress might feel unfamiliar. Celebration might not come naturally. You might minimize it, dismiss it, or move on quickly. You may think, “Okay, but what’s next?” This isn’t because you’re ungrateful. It’s because your nervous system may have learned that receiving, whether praise, rest, or acknowledgment, wasn’t always safe. You may have internalized the idea that attention comes with strings attached, that being seen means being scrutinized, and that pausing makes you vulnerable. Even positive attention can feel disorienting. Kind words might trigger suspicion. Recognition might feel like pressure. Joy might feel unfamiliar. When there is a history of unmet needs, emotional suppression, or overfunctioning, receiving can feel like a risk. Noticing yourself, honoring yourself, and letting something good land may stir resistance. This is not a flaw. It is a protective adaptation. And it can shift, slowly and gently, as you build new experiences of internal safety. The Grief of Being Partially Seen You may have been praised for the part of you that performs well under pressure. You might have been celebrated for staying calm, for keeping the peace, or for being strong and helpful when others were not. But what about the parts of you that are tender? What about the part that is tired, or angry, or longing for care? What about the part that says, “I don’t want to hold it all anymore”? So often, clients name this quiet grief, this feeling of being partially seen. They may feel loved for their strength but not for their softness. They may feel appreciated for what they give but not for who they are. Healing invites a reunion with your whole self. And that includes learning how to acknowledge the parts that were never celebrated. The Boundary That No One Clapped For You might speak up. You might say no. You might choose yourself, and the reaction you receive may not be what you hoped for. Someone may become upset. Someone may pull away. You may be met with silence. The act of boundary-setting, of listening to your needs, might stir discomfort in others. Not because you have done something wrong, but because you have done something different. And in those moments, your nervous system might long for reassurance. You may find yourself wondering, “Did I do the right thing?” or “Why doesn’t this feel better?” This is where the practice of self-celebration becomes essential. It is not performative. It is not self-indulgent. It is how you begin to trust that growth is happening, even when it feels quiet. Healing Is Subtle and Sacred Healing often whispers rather than shouts. It may sound like silence instead of snapping back. It may look like choosing rest instead of pushing harder. It may feel like honoring your limits, even when others don’t understand. These are not small things. And while the world may not name them, you can. You can light a candle. You can speak them aloud. You can take a breath and say, “This mattered. I mattered in this moment.” A Gentle Practice for Self-Celebration Step 1: Pause and check in. Find a quiet moment. Place a hand on your heart or your belly. Close your eyes if that feels comfortable. Take one or two slow breaths and notice what you’re feeling in your body. Let this be a moment of presence, not pressure. Step 2: Name one act of healing. Think back on your day. Identify one choice you made that supported your growth, your boundaries, or your well-being. It does not need to be dramatic. It might be as simple as saying no, taking a break, responding more calmly, or giving yourself permission to feel something instead of pushing through. Step 3: Let your body register it. Once you’ve named your win, pause again. Ask yourself: How does it feel to acknowledge this? Can I allow that feeling to linger for just a moment longer? Whether you feel warmth, tension, pride, or nothing at all, it’s okay. The goal is to notice , not to achieve. Step 4: Mark the moment. Close the practice in a way that feels meaningful to you. You might write your win in a journal. You might light a candle, whisper “thank you,” or say, “This mattered.” Choose something that helps your nervous system register completion and acknowledgment. You Are Worthy of Recognition You do not need to be fully healed to be worthy of recognition. You do not need anyone’s permission to be proud. You do not need fireworks. You simply need a moment, and your own acknowledgment. Let yourself celebrate what was never named. Let yourself feel what is true. Let yourself matter, not for what you do, but for who you are becoming. Even if no one else sees it yet, you do. And that changes everything.

Grounding begins with simple connection. Feeling your feet on the earth can signal safety to your nervous system When I support clients through somatic therapy , I often witness something subtle but powerful. A strong emotion rises. The throat tightens. The chest constricts. Tears begin. And then, without even realizing it, the client takes a breath to push the feeling away. They try to calm down, to breathe it out, to get back to baseline. It is a natural response. It makes sense. And sometimes, it is helpful. But not always. What I have noticed is that for many sensitive clients navigating anxiety , trauma symptoms , or burnout , this reflex to immediately calm the body is not really about regulation. It is about suppression . It is about swallowing something down because it feels too big, too messy, or too much. Somewhere along the line, they learned that “calm” was the goal, and anything outside of that range was unsafe or wrong. But calm is not the same as regulated. What Regulation Actually Means Nervous system regulation is not about being peaceful at all times. It is about having the capacity to be present with whatever is arising. It is about staying connected to yourself even when big emotions move through. It is about knowing when you are dysregulated, and gently guiding yourself back into a regulated state. It is not forcing yourself into stillness. True regulation builds over time. It is not a performance. It is a practice. Tracking Activation One helpful tool I often use in session is to take the temperature of a feeling or sensation to assess level of distress. Technically speaking this is the subjective units of distress scale that comes from EMDR therapy and helps clients notice and name their level of internal activation. Zero is neutral. Ten is the most distressed or activated you can imagine. By learning to check in with this scale throughout a session, clients begin to build awareness of their inner world. They also start to understand how their body responds at each level and which tools are most helpful at different points on the scale. This is the work of distress tolerance . It is not about avoiding the spike, but learning how to ride the wave without shutting it down. The Window of Tolerance Window of Tolerance This concept, developed by Dr. Dan Siegel , describes the optimal zone of arousal in which a person can function effectively. When we are within our window, we feel safe, grounded, and connected. When we are pushed outside of it, either into hyperarousal (anxiety, panic, overwhelm) or hypoarousal (numbness, shutdown, dissociation), it becomes much harder to think clearly, regulate emotions, or stay present. With trauma-informed therapy , the goal is not to keep you inside the window at all times, but to widen the window . That way, you can stay present with more emotion, more sensation, and more of yourself without needing to retreat or collapse. Staying With the Feeling The next time something stirs inside you whether it is grief, anger, or fear, see if you can pause before trying to fix it or stop it. Take the temperature. Where are you on your internal scale? What would it feel like to stay with the feeling, even just a little longer? Regulation means you are building the strength and trust to meet yourself exactly where you are. It means you can handle what is arising without losing yourself in it. And if you cannot yet, that is okay too. That is where the healing begins. Regulation is really about your nervous system learning to create conditions of safety inside and around you so your body can soften, settle, and know it is okay to be here. From that foundation of safety, your capacity to meet life expands. Try This: A Body-Based Check-In Here is a simple somatic practice to support emotional presence: Bring your attention to your body. Place one hand on your chest and one on your belly. Gently close your eyes or soften your gaze. Notice what is present. Are there any signs of activation or distress? Some examples might be: a racing heart, a pit in your stomach, tightness in your jaw, or irritation. If you can, name it. Check the temperature. Using the SUDS scale (0 = neutral, 10 = highest distress), give the feeling/sensation a number without judgment. Get curious. Take a slow breath and ask: What does this part of me need right now? Over time, this simple check-in helps you recognize patterns and develop the capacity to respond, not react. You Are Not Too Much So many of us have internalized the belief that big feelings are dangerous. But in truth, emotional energy is part of what makes us whole. You do not have to fear your feelings. You do not have to chase calm. With the right support, you can learn to regulate or to stay with yourself and feel safe in your body again. This is what somatic therapy offers. Not just symptom relief, but a pathway home to your body, your emotions, and your wholeness. ✨ Ready to explore your own emotional landscape? If this resonates and you are interested in learning how to map your unique nervous system I invite you to reach out for a free consultation here . You can also check out more resources on my website including my recent blog post on hypervigilance vs attunement .

Coping With Stress and Overwhelm in Transitions In times of distress, I often hear clients turn inward with self-criticism: “What’s wrong with me? Why am I struggling to adjust? I should be handling this better.” I know this voice well because it has been my own. For many years, being called “needy” would have felt like an insult. To me it meant weakness, failure, or not being strong enough. I had learned to be self-reliant, to push through, to deny my needs as a way of coping with adversity. That is why Mara Glatzel’s book Needy felt so significant when I first encountered it. What once sounded like a judgment became an invitation. The very word that once carried shame became a doorway into self-acceptance. Her work reframed “needy” not as a flaw but as a profound truth of being human, that our needs are valid, sacred, and worthy of care. What I have discovered in my own life, and in the lives of countless clients, is that when we abandon the question “What’s wrong with me?” and instead ask “What do I need right now?” we soften the shame that keeps us stuck. We open space for care. Meeting Emotional Needs During Change Transitions are demanding. Even positive shifts such as starting a new job, moving homes, preparing for motherhood, or engaging in therapy and EMDR can stir anxiety, nervous system activation, and emotional overwhelm. Our brains work overtime to learn new routines, while our hearts wrestle with letting go of what we know. In these seasons, needs are not signs of weakness but signals for how to steady ourselves. Sometimes what we need is as basic as food, sleep, or rest. Other times it is the comfort of connection, the safety of structure, or the relief of beauty and play. Naming and tending to needs is an essential part of trauma healing and a compassionate way to manage stress. Categories of Human Needs When you feel stuck or overwhelmed, it can help to scan across different domains of need and notice which one is calling for your attention: Well-being : rest, sleep, nourishment, safety, comfort, stability, vitality Connection : love, belonging, trust, intimacy, empathy, being seen and heard Self-expression : authenticity, freedom, creativity, joy, spontaneity, honesty, adventure Meaning and contribution : purpose, growth, learning, participation, mastery, self-actualization Sometimes what we need is tangible, like sleep or food. Sometimes it is relational, like being heard. Other times it is existential, like remembering our sense of purpose. All of these needs are human, valid, and worth honoring. How to Manage Stress in Transitions: Attune and Respond One practice I return to again and again, both in my own healing journey and with clients, is attune and respond . To attune means to listen inward and notice what is happening in your body and emotions. To respond means to meet that awareness with action, choosing one small way to care for yourself. For example: If you notice you are exhausted, responding might mean pausing, dimming the lights, and offering yourself rest to support your nervous system. If you feel anxious, responding might mean practicing grounding, steadying your breath, or stepping outside for fresh air as a form of stress relief. If you feel lonely, responding might mean reaching out to a trusted friend, or spending time in a space where you feel less isolated. Attune. Respond. Repeat. This simple rhythm helps reduce overwhelm and supports self-compassion during change. And there is something even more important. Each time you listen inward and then follow through with care, you build self-trust . You prove to yourself that your needs matter and that you will not abandon yourself. Over time, this practice creates a steady inner relationship, one where you can rely on yourself to show up with consistency, kindness, and presence. Why Orienting to Needs Matters During transitions, whether you are healing childhood trauma, navigating perinatal shifts, or working with somatic therapy, your system is already doing hard work. Orienting to your needs is not indulgence. It is what fortifies you to continue. The question is not “Why am I struggling?” The question is “What do I need right now?” A Gentle Invitation This week, I invite you to pause in moments of stress or self-criticism and ask yourself: What do I need right now? Notice what arises. See if you can meet one small need with care. Even one response, one moment of listening and following through, can become a step toward rebuilding self-trust. Each time you choose to attune and respond, you are laying the foundation for a more steady, compassionate relationship with yourself. Resources and References Needy by Mara Glatzel Universal Needs categories adapted from NVC needs lists

Most people think grief only happens after death. We picture funerals, memorials, and casseroles left on the porch. There are rituals, however imperfect, that acknowledge the loss. But some grief does not come with casseroles. It has no ceremony, no clear name, no community recognition. It lives in the shadows, carried quietly because the world does not know how to hold it. One of those griefs is the ache of grieving the living —the pain of loving someone who is still alive but no longer present in the way you need them. This is sometimes called ambiguous loss or disenfranchised grief , and it can be just as deep and lonely. What is ambiguous loss? Psychologist Pauline Boss coined the term ambiguous loss . It describes grief that has no clear resolution. Someone is both here and not here. You may know ambiguous loss if: A parent or partner is physically present but emotionally absent. A loved one lives with dementia and no longer remembers you. A sibling or partner has changed after a brain injury. You have chosen estrangement as the only safe option in a painful relationship. This is grief without closure. The body is here, but the relationship you long for is gone. What is disenfranchised grief? Disenfranchised grief , a term from Kenneth Doka, describes losses society does not validate. Grieving the living often falls into this category. It sounds like: “But your mom is still alive.” “Why can’t you just call?” “It’s not like they died.” These responses suggest your grief is not legitimate, which can leave you carrying it silently. Disenfranchised grief often becomes a private grief and a lonely grief. Kelly McDaniel’s Mother Hunger captures this pain. She names the grief of longing for the mothering you needed but never received which is a grief culture often shames or silences. When grief has no casseroles Most grief comes with casseroles. Neighbors arrive with food, people check in, and there is a script to follow after death. But grieving the living does not come with casseroles. It often comes with silence. There came a point in my own healing when I realized no one was going to show up with a dish to acknowledge the invisible grief I was carrying. And so I decided to make myself the casserole. I cooked something warm, sat down at my own table, and named what no one else could see. It was an act of defiance, but also of tenderness. A way of saying to myself: This grief is real. You deserve comfort. You deserve care. Sometimes honoring grief means creating your own rituals when the world offers none. The shame of grieving the living Because ambiguous loss is not widely recognized, shame often layers on top of it. You may hear the voice saying: “Something must be wrong with me.” “Other families seem close. Why not mine?” “If I admit this grief, I’ll be judged.” But your grief is not a weakness. It is the evidence of love, need, and longing. Naming it is not betrayal. It is honesty. The comparison trap When you are grieving estrangement or ambiguous loss, comparison can deepen the loneliness. Holiday photos, parent tributes, and family gatherings often stir the thought that you should not feel the way you do. But grief is not a competition. What you carry is real, even if it looks different than someone else’s. Estrangement grief and ambivalence Estrangement is sometimes a necessary form of self-protection. You can grieve someone and still choose distance. You can miss someone and feel relief at the same time. This is called estrangement grief , and the ambivalence it brings is a normal part of being human. Practices for hidden grief If you are grieving the living, here are gentle practices that may help: Notice your body. Where does this grief live...in your chest, throat, belly? Offer breath and compassion there. Whisper: “This makes sense.” Reflect. Ask: What am I grieving that has no ritual? What would it look like to honor it anyway? Find safe witnesses. Share with those who can validate your grief instead of dismissing it. Resources for grieving the living Pauline Boss - Ambiguous Loss and The Myth of Closure Kenneth Doka - Disenfranchised Grief Kelly McDaniel - Mother Hunger Closing Grieving the living is real grief. It may not come with casseroles or ceremonies, but it deserves recognition. It is not about giving up hope. It is about honoring reality. Whether you are facing ambiguous loss, disenfranchised grief, or estrangement grief, know this: your experience is valid, your grief makes sense, and you are not alone.

The sky doesn’t choose between sun and clouds and neither should we. Wholeness means making space for every part of our emotional weather. Many of us were taught to chase happiness as the ultimate goal. We want the people we love to feel joy, delight, ease. Of course we do. If we are parents, that often translates into wanting a happy child. If we are not, it may show up in the way we encourage friends, partners, or even ourselves to “just be happy.” But what happens when happiness becomes the only goal? For some, this longing runs even deeper. If you grew up without your needs being met, emotionally, physically, or relationally, you may carry a fierce vow to give others what you did not have. And if you do not remember your own childhood as happy, the drive to make sure someone else’s is can become even stronger. This is beautiful in intention. But there is a hidden risk. We might curate experiences toward happiness while unintentionally sidelining the other parts of our humanity. Sad parts. Angry parts. Anxious parts. Unmotivated parts. Awkward parts. The ones that grieve, protest, or stumble. These are not flaws to erase. They are part of the fabric of being human. They teach empathy, resilience, and self-understanding. If we rush to replace them with a smile, we may be teaching, without meaning to, that some parts are welcome and others are not. This can also show up in the way we define and distort certain values. Gratitude, for example, can be a powerful practice of presence and perspective. Yet when it is used to silence or override discomfort, it can become another way of exiling parts of ourselves. Complaining can be labeled as weakness or negativity, when in truth it is often an early signal of a need going unmet. When we condemn complaining without curiosity, we lose the opportunity to understand what that part of us is asking for. When the goal is happiness, what happens to the child or the adult who does not feel happy? We can begin to see our sadness, anger, or confusion as personal failures. We can believe something is wrong with us simply because we do not embody the feeling we have been told is the goal. This is where it is worth asking. What does it mean to support a healthy human being, whether that is a child, a partner, a friend, or ourselves? Health is not just physical milestones or the absence of illness. It includes emotional and mental well-being. It is the capacity to navigate disappointment, conflict, and change without losing connection to oneself. If our definition of health is too narrow, we risk creating lives that feel good only in fair weather. This is at the heart of what Dr. Dan Siegel describes in The Whole-Brain Child. He talks about integration, which is the process of welcoming and weaving together different parts of the brain and self so that no single part dominates or gets exiled. It is also related to the premise of The Happiness Trap. This book challenges the cultural myth that constant happiness is the sign of a good life. Instead, it invites us to make space for the full range of human experiences while staying anchored in what matters most. For me, this work is personal. When I became a parent, I carried both joy and fear. The joy of meeting my children. The fear of repeating cycles I knew I wanted to break. I wanted my children, especially their weird and wild parts, to feel welcomed. I wanted their expressive parts to be celebrated, not called “too dramatic” or “too sensitive,” as I can remember being. I wanted them to know their needs mattered. That they mattered. I also wanted them to know presence and pleasure. To feel the freedom of play. To experience rest as something vital, not something earned. In my own childhood, I learned to earn love through productivity. My worth felt tied to what I could do, how good I could be, how much I could accomplish. Goodness was measured. I want them to know goodness simply is. That they are worthy just because they are here. That doing has its place, but being is just as essential. And that is not only my hope for my children. It is the heart of my work at You Matter Holistic Healing. The belief that all parts of you matter. Your feelings, your needs, your wants, your desires. Your joy and your grief. Your rest and your striving. Nature offers a perfect reminder. Here in New England, no one expects the weather to be the same every day. We prepare for change, sometimes sudden change. The sky can move from bright blue to heavy gray in an afternoon, and both are simply part of the cycle. Why would we expect our inner climate to be any different? Our moods shift. Our feelings roll in and out like weather fronts. They are not errors in the system. They are part of the system. When we create environments, at home, in relationships, and within ourselves, where all emotional “weather” is met with safety and acceptance, we give permission for the whole self to develop. This is not only about how we support others. It is also about how we support ourselves. We are both child and parent to ourselves. We carry the child parts shaped by our own lived experiences. We also serve as the caregiver, leader, and guide for our present and future self. The way we respond to our own sadness, anger, confusion, and joy will shape our sense of wholeness just as much as it would for anyone in our care. Wholeness holds it all. It honors joy and grief, clarity and confusion, light and shadow. Supporting wholeness, in ourselves and in those we love, plants seeds for a life that is not only happy in moments, but also grounded, resilient, and deeply human. If you are ready to move beyond chasing happiness and begin cultivating wholeness, I would love to walk alongside you. In our work together, all parts of you are welcome. We will make space for your joy and your grief, your clarity and your confusion, your being and your doing. Because you matter. All of you. Schedule a session or learn more here .