Isn’t getting older grand?
A child I work with recently told me they’re scared to get older.
They talked about bigger expectations. More responsibility. Harder days.
They worried that something important might disappear—that being older would mean less fun, less safety, less magic.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was honest.
And sitting there with them, I realized how often we talk about getting older like it’s something to brace for instead of something to step into.
We warn kids about it.
We joke about it as adults.
We measure it in losses more than gains.
But the truth is, getting older isn’t just about what gets heavier.
It’s also about what gets wider.
What We’re Afraid Of When We Think About Getting Older
The fear makes sense.
Getting older does come with more responsibility.
More decisions.
More moments where no one swoops in to fix things for you.
For kids, that can feel like the end of something precious.
For adults, it can feel like a narrowing—fewer options, fewer chances, fewer firsts.
We don’t lie when we acknowledge that weight.
But we miss something important when we stop there.
What Actually Grows With Age
What we don’t talk about enough is how much capacity grows as we age.
You gain skills you couldn’t have accessed earlier:
Emotional regulation
Perspective
Knowing when to push and when to rest
Knowing what matters and what doesn’t deserve your energy
These skills don’t arrive all at once.
They stack quietly, year after year, often unnoticed until you need them.
You also gain new freedoms:
Choosing your people
Choosing your pace
Choosing how much you explain
Choosing what you no longer carry
Getting older doesn’t mean you lose agency.
It often means you finally get to use it.
Three Generations, One Moment
This all hit me in the same week I was talking with that child.
I’m getting another year older next week.
Not in a dramatic way—just one of those birthdays that sneaks up on you.
At the same time, I’m planning a summer trip with my 78-year-old mom.
We’re traveling to foreign countries together—new streets, new languages, unfamiliar places.
Watching her plan that trip is a quiet reminder of something powerful:
getting older doesn’t mean you stop exploring.
It often means you explore with more confidence, more curiosity, and fewer apologies.
In one week, I’m holding:
A child afraid of growing up
My own reflection on aging
And a parent who is still expanding her world
That doesn’t feel like decline.
It feels like continuity.
A Better Way to Think About “Older”
Getting older doesn’t mean the door closes.
It means the map gets bigger.
Each year adds tools you didn’t have before.
Each year gives you more choice about how you move through the world.
Yes, the stakes change.
Yes, responsibility increases.
But so does your ability to meet what’s in front of you.
What I Told the Child (and What I Tell Myself)
I didn’t tell my client not to be scared.
I told them that every year comes with new tools they don’t have yet—and that they won’t be alone when those years arrive.
And I think that’s the part worth holding onto.
The excitement of getting older isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It shows up quietly—in new skills, new freedoms, and the growing realization that you’re more capable than you once were.
That doesn’t mean life gets easier.
It means you get stronger at living it.
And honestly?
That’s something to look forward to.
What to Do When Your Feelings Are Too Big for Your Body Written for kids — and the grown-ups who care about them.
Have you ever felt like your body was suddenly a volcano?
Your heart beats fast.
Your throat feels tight.
Your hands squeeze — or maybe you want to yell, hide, or cry…
even when nothing huge happened on the outside.
I saw this just the other night.
I was at a friend’s house.
Adults were talking in the kitchen — loud laughter, clanking dishes — and I noticed their child slip quietly into the hallway and sit on the floor.
No one else saw it — but I did.
Their knees were pulled in tight.
Eyes glued to one spot on the wall.
Shoulders shaking a little.
Nothing “bad” had happened.
No one was upset with them.
And yet — their body looked full — full of a feeling that was too big to hold alone.
When I sat down nearby and asked softly what it felt like, they whispered:
“It’s like my body is panicking even though I’m not.”
And honestly?
That might be one of the smartest explanations I’ve ever heard.
🧠 Why Big Feelings Happen (Brain Science — Kid Language)
Inside your brain is a little alarm system called the amygdala.
Its job? Keep you safe.
When it thinks something might be scary or too much, it sends signals:
🚨 fast heartbeat
🚨 tight chest
🚨 urge to run, freeze, yell, or hide
Sometimes the alarm is right.
Sometimes it goes off even when you’re actually safe — like when a room is too loud, you make a mistake, or you suddenly feel small around a crowd.
That doesn’t mean you’re “too sensitive.”
It means your brain is trying to help — but it needs tools to calm down and reset.
🎒 Tools You Can Use Anywhere
🎢 1️⃣ Roller-Coaster Breathing
Hold up your hand like a mountain range.
⬆️ Slide up a finger – breathe in
⬇️ Slide down the finger – breathe out
Do it slowly.
Your brain hears:
“We’re okay.”
✏️ 2️⃣ Draw the Feeling Outside of You
Grab a pencil or the back of a napkin.
Draw what the feeling looks like.
A storm?
A scribble?
Something spiky or tiny?
Once it’s on paper, you can look at it instead of feeling trapped inside it.
❄️ 3️⃣ The Cold Switch
Cold things help your body calm faster than words sometimes.
Try:
• holding a cold water bottle
• ice cube between your fingers
• splash of water on cheeks
Your nervous system goes from:
“ALERT!” → “We’re safe.”
🗣️ 4️⃣ Say This Sentence
“This feeling is big — but I am bigger.”
Say it softly.
Say it in your mind.
Say it until you feel even a tiny shift.
🌱 A Story Ending — and a Beginning
Back in that hallway at my friend’s house —
the child tried roller-coaster breathing.
They didn’t speak.
They just traced their fingers… slow.
And after a minute, their body softened.
They stood up, walked back into the living room, and rejoined the world — not because the feeling disappeared…
but because they remembered they weren’t stuck.
Big feelings don’t make you weak.
Knowing what to do with them makes you powerful.
🧡 Try This Together (Kids + Adults)
Next time a feeling fills your whole body, you can both try:
Hand on chest.
Slow breath.
And a whisper:
“I’m allowed to feel this. And I can help myself through it.”
That’s strength.
And that’s growing.
Permission to Mourn the Things We’re “Supposed” to Be Over
It’s not the door…
The other day I couldn’t do a very basic handyman task.
Nothing dramatic. A door. A bracket. A nail.
Something that, in my head, should have been easy.
Instead, I lost it.
I was smashing the door with a hammer.
I was yelling.
I was furious — not just annoyed, but that hot, tunnel-vision kind of rage where everything else disappears.
And at some point, I caught myself and thought:
This feels bigger than a door.
So I stopped.
And I asked myself why.
What surprised me wasn’t how quickly the answer came — it was what the answer was.
I realized I wasn’t really mad at the door.
I was mad at my dad.
Mad that he didn’t teach me how to do this.
Mad that he wasn’t there.
Mad that I still feel that absence in moments where it “shouldn’t” matter anymore.
That part stopped me cold.
On paper, this grief doesn’t make sense.
I’m an adult.
I’m capable.
I’ve built a good life.
And yet — there it was.
Why We Need Permission to Mourn the “Old Stuff”
We don’t often give ourselves permission to mourn things that feel outdated or socially awkward to grieve.
We’re supposed to be past them.
We’re supposed to have moved on.
But grief doesn’t care about timelines or logic.
Sometimes it hides in a doorframe.
Sometimes it comes out sideways as rage.
Sometimes it waits until you feel small, stuck, incompetent —
and then it shows up loud.
What I’ve learned (and keep relearning) is that anger is often a messenger.
It’s pointing to something that never got space.
Something that never got named.
When we don’t allow ourselves to mourn what should have been —
a parent who showed up, a skill we wish we had learned,
a version of ourselves that felt supported —
it leaks out anyway.
Usually at the worst possible time.
The Science (Why This Happens)
When we suddenly feel overwhelmed or incompetent, the brain often drops out of logical, problem-solving mode and into threat mode.
Our emotional brain takes over before we’ve had time to think.
Our brains are also incredible at association.
They link now with then.
A stuck screw isn’t just a stuck screw —
it taps into earlier experiences of feeling unsupported, alone, or expected to “figure it out.”
Research on emotional regulation shows:
Emotions that aren’t processed don’t disappear —
they get stored.
And later, when something familiar pokes them,
they come back as anger, shame, or sudden intensity.
This is emotional displacement —
the feelings belong to one situation…
but they show up in another.
Which means:
You’re not overreacting.
You’re reacting to something that never got acknowledged.
This Isn’t About Blame
This isn’t about rewriting the past or blaming parents.
It’s about honesty.
It’s about saying:
Yes — this still hurts.
Yes — this mattered.
Yes — I’m allowed to feel this… even now.
The door eventually got fixed.
The rage passed.
But the grief —
that needed a moment.
Maybe the permission we really need
is simply to notice it
when it shows up…
even if it shows up holding a hammer.
Homework (Gentle. Optional. Real-Life.)
If this resonates, here are small invitations — not fixes.
1️⃣ Name the “This Isn’t About the Door” Moment
Next time you feel a big reaction to a small problem, pause and ask:
What else might this be about?
You don’t need an answer.
Just ask.
2️⃣ Finish the Sentence
Say or write:
“I’m really upset about ___, but I think part of this is about ___.”
No judging. No editing.
3️⃣ A 60-Second Grief Window
Give the feeling one minute.
No solutions.
Just acknowledgment.
Grief often softens once it’s witnessed.
4️⃣ Remind Yourself
Say (out loud if you can):
“It makes sense that this showed up.”
Because most of the time —
it does.
Final Line
Sometimes mourning what should have been
is the most honest form of healing.
And sometimes…
that’s enough for now.
A Season of Fewer Tabs
A Season of Fewer Tabs
I’m bad at this.
Let’s just start there.
I am not naturally good at slowing down, doing less, or deciding that something is finished. My brain is always quietly… and loudly… asking:
“Okay… but what’s next?”
Even when things are good.
Especially when things are good.
And honestly? I see the same thing happening in schools all the time.
More programs.
More data.
More emails.
More interventions.
More enrichment.
More clubs.
More reminders to “just push through a little longer.”
Somewhere along the way, “doing enough” stopped feeling like enough.
The Tab Problem
Recently I realized my brain feels like my laptop when I have too many tabs open.
Nothing is technically broken —
but everything is slower.
A little glitchy.
Slightly overheating.
Constantly humming in the background.
That’s what happens when we keep adding… without ever closing.
And here’s the part I don’t love admitting:
I often confuse being busy with being responsible.
If I’m doing more → I must be trying hard.
If I’m tired → it must mean I care.
If I can’t sleep → it’s probably because I haven’t figured it all out yet.
Spoiler: that’s not how sleep works.
What This Does to Sleep
When we don’t give ourselves permission to stop,
our brain never gets the signal that it’s safe to power down.
So at night, instead of rest, we get:
Mental replay
To-do list reruns
Conversations that already happened
Conversations that might happen
A strong urge to solve everything at 11:47 PM
It’s not because we’re bad at sleeping.
It’s because our nervous system still thinks we’re… on.
The Science (Friendly Version)
There’s a reason we stay busy — and it’s not because we love exhaustion.
From a psychological lens:
Being busy gives us predictability
Productivity provides short-term relief
Constant motion keeps us from sitting with discomfort
Our brains are wired to avoid uncertainty.
Stillness removes distraction — which means we suddenly hear the thoughts we’ve been dodging:
Am I doing enough?
What if I disappoint someone?
What if I stop and realize I’m overwhelmed?
What if… I don’t like how this feels?
Busyness becomes a coping strategy —
a socially approved one.
And in schools, this shows up as:
Over-programming
Overscheduling
Adults modeling exhaustion as commitment
Kids learning early that rest is something you earn, not something you need
When Enough Is… Enough
The hard question is never:
“What else should we add?”
The harder one is:
“What could we stop doing and still be okay?”
Or even scarier:
“What if we stopped… and nothing bad happened?”
A season of fewer tabs doesn’t mean giving up.
It means choosing intentionally.
Capacity is not unlimited — for adults or kids.
Sometimes the healthiest move
is closing something gently and saying:
“This is enough for now.”
Homework (Gentle, I Promise)
1️⃣ The Tab Audit
Write down 5 things currently taking up mental space.
Ask:
• Does this still matter?
• Is this mine to carry?
• Could this wait?
Close one tab. Just one.
2️⃣ The “Enough” Sentence
Once a day, finish:
“Today, enough looked like ______.”
No fixing.
No improving.
Just noticing.
3️⃣ The Nighttime Test
If sleep has been hard, ask:
“What am I afraid will happen if I stop thinking about this tonight?”
You don’t have to answer it.
Simply naming it is powerful.
🤍 Final Thought
I don’t have this figured out.
I’m practicing it alongside everyone else.
But I’m learning that:
Rest isn’t laziness
Slowing down isn’t quitting
And fewer tabs doesn’t mean fewer things matter
Sometimes it just means
we’re finally giving our brain — and our body —
permission to breathe.
And honestly?
That feels like enough for now.
Who Cares? (In the Kindest Way Possible)
The other night after a show, a woman in the crowd shared something quietly and honestly.
She said she wished she could sing or dance in front of people—but she was too afraid of being judged.
Not “I can’t.”… “I’m scared.”
That stuck with me.
Because that fear isn’t really about singing or dancing. It’s about being seen. It’s about worrying what other people might think if we show a piece of ourselves that isn’t polished, practiced, or approved.
And it brought me back to a moment years ago when I was making art alongside a well-established artist. Her work was confident, effortless, clearly shaped by years of experience. Mine felt small in comparison.
I remember staring at my piece and thinking, Why am I even doing this?
I wanted to throw it away before anyone noticed it.
She looked at me, then at my work, and said something I’ve carried with me ever since:
“Art is for you.
This is how you see butterflies.
And that’s what matters.”
We weren’t making “good” butterflies.
We were making our butterflies.
And that’s when it clicked.
Who cares?
Not in a dismissive way.
Not in a “nothing matters” way.
But in a gentle way.
A way that says:
We’re all just working our way through life the best we can.
What “Who Cares” Really Means
When I say who cares, I don’t mean:
Stop trying
Be reckless
Nothing matters anyway
I mean:
You don’t have to carry imagined judgment
You don’t need universal approval
You’re allowed to exist imperfectly
Most of us aren’t afraid of failing.
We’re afraid of being evaluated while we try.
But here’s the truth we forget:
Everyone else is doing the same thing…figuring it out as they go, hiding their own doubts, hoping they’re “doing it right.”
Who cares if your art isn’t the best in the room?
Who cares if your voice shakes?
Who cares if your version looks different?
Not because it’s meaningless…but because it’s human.
The Science of Fear (and Why It Feels So Loud)
Fear isn’t a personal flaw. It’s biology.
Your brain’s alarm system—the amygdala—exists to keep you safe. The problem is that it reacts to social threat the same way it reacts to physical danger.
Judgment, embarrassment, rejection?
Your nervous system reads those as risk.
So when you think about:
singing
dancing
creating
sharing
Your body reacts before your logic catches up.
Fear says: “Don’t do this.”
Not because it’s dangerous,but because it’s unfamiliar.
And your brain would rather keep you comfortable than help you grow.
A Softer Way to Move Through Fear
Instead of trying to “beat” fear, try walking with it.
1. Shrink the moment
You don’t have to perform.
Create where no one else is watching.
Fear learns through experience,not pressure.
2. Name what you’re actually afraid of
Often it’s not the act itself.
It’s:
being judged
being compared
being misunderstood
Naming fear turns it from a monster into information.
3. Ask the real question
Not “Is this good?”
But “Is this mine?”
That’s where freedom lives.
4. Practice “who cares” on purpose
When the critical voice shows up, try responding with:
“Maybe. And I’ll be okay anyway.”
That’s not giving up.
That’s letting go.
The Homework (Low Pressure, High Permission)
This week, do one small thing just for you.
Sing.
Draw.
Dance.
Write.
Create.
No fixing. No sharing. No improving.
Afterward, ask yourself:
What was I worried would happen?
What actually happened?
Did the fear pass?
How did my body feel afterward?
Let the answer matter more than the outcome.
Because life isn’t about doing it perfectly.
It’s about doing it honestly.
And maybe the kindest thing we can remind ourselves is this:
Who cares?
We’re all just doing our best—
and that’s what’s important.
You’re Allowed to Outgrow Things
There is a strange feeling that comes from rereading the same chapter of a book again and again. At first it feels comforting. You know the lines. You know where the story is going. But eventually you start to feel it: there is nothing new to discover. The story is stuck. You are stuck. And the more you sit with it, the more you realize you are ready for the next page, even if you are nervous to turn it.
Life has chapters like that too. Seasons you have loved. Roles that once felt perfect. People or routines that helped you grow. But after a while, something shifts inside you. You learn less. You feel inspired less. You can sense yourself stretching past the edges of what used to fit. These shifts are quiet at first, but they always get louder.
That is usually the moment people freeze. We assume the familiar is supposed to last forever, even when our spirit has already begun to move on.
The Band That I Outgrew
I felt this most clearly with a band I used to be in. At one point in my life, it meant everything. It gave me belonging and direction. It helped shape who I was becoming. But as time went on, I started to feel the disconnect. The people in it wanted different things. The energy was not the same. And the part of me that used to leave rehearsals feeling alive started leaving feeling drained.
It was confusing. It was sad. It was uncomfortable to admit that something I cared about so deeply was no longer a fit for who I was becoming. It did not end in a dramatic way. There was no fight or explosion. It was simply the truth that the chapter had stopped growing with me.
Did I regret leaving in the moment? Yes. Do I still think about it sometimes? Of course. Every meaningful chapter leaves a mark. But staying would have been like rereading a page I already knew by heart. The only way forward was to let myself turn the page.
Outgrowing Something Does Not Mean It Failed
People often treat outgrowing as abandoning, but they are not the same. You can appreciate something and still recognize that it no longer fits. You can love the memories and still choose a new direction. You can be grateful for what something gave you and still give yourself permission to grow past it.
Growth looks like:
• realizing something that once filled your bucket now leaves it empty
• wanting different things than you used to
• feeling restless in a place that used to feel safe
• noticing your energy pulling you somewhere new
None of those signs mean something is wrong. They simply mean you are changing.
The Psychology of Turning the Page
Identity is not something you choose once. It is something you revise throughout your life. Your brain continuously updates based on experiences, relationships, and the values you uncover as you move forward. So when a chapter stops matching those internal shifts, you feel it.
Restlessness.
Boredom.
A tightness in your chest you cannot quite name.
A sense of living a life that used to be yours but is not anymore.
These feelings are not failures. They are invitations.
You Are Allowed to Move Forward
You do not owe the world the older version of you. You do not have to stay inside chapters that no longer feel alive. There is no award for holding onto something past its time. There is only the cost of shrinking yourself to make the past comfortable.
You are allowed to grow.
You are allowed to want something else.
You are allowed to choose the next version of yourself.
You are allowed to change the shell you have been living in.
You do not need permission, but if you want it, here it is:
You are allowed to outgrow things, even good things.
A Small Challenge
Think about one part of your life that feels like rereading the same chapter. A habit, a routine, a relationship, a commitment, or an identity you have carried for years. Ask yourself if it still matches who you are now.
Then ask the next question:
If you met yourself today for the first time, would you choose this chapter again?
If the answer is no, maybe it is time to turn the page.
The Quiet Kind of Gratitude
Gratitude hits differently as you get older.
It stops being something you list in a journal or talk about around the holidays. It becomes quieter. Heavier. More honest. Something you feel humming in the background of your life without needing to announce it.
For me, gratitude almost always circles back to my mom.
She was never the type to point out her sacrifices or make her support about her. She just showed up. Over and over, in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later.
I think about being 13 years old, guitar case bigger than I was, playing tiny shows in restaurants and cafés where the “stage” was just a corner with one flickering bulb. Somehow, she drove me to every single one. Weeknights. Weekends. Snowstorms. Long days. She sat in the back, smiling even when I was shaky or unsure — like the music mattered simply because I cared about it.
I think about graduations, too, every milestone, every ceremony, every moment when the future felt both exciting and terrifying. She was there for all of it. Fully present. Fully steady.
And then there were the smaller things, the things that shouldn’t matter as much as they do, but somehow do anyway.
The dessert samplers she’d bring home when she could tell I needed something comforting.
The quiet moments when life felt heavy.
The subtle reminders that someone was rooting for me.
It wasn’t about the desserts.
It was the message behind them:
I see you. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.
The older I get, the more I appreciate that consistency.
Because she didn’t just show up when I was thriving.
She showed up when I wasn’t.
She supported the version of me that felt proud and confident, and the version that felt lost, overwhelmed, or unsure who I was supposed to be. So much of who I am today, how I care for people, how I show up for my students, how I handle setbacks, how I try to lead with compassion, it comes directly from her quiet, steady influence.
That’s the kind of gratitude that stays with you.
Not performative.
Not seasonal.
But lived.
The Science of Quiet Gratitude (and How to Practice It Daily)
One thing I’ve learned both personally and through my work is that gratitude doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. In fact, research shows that the quietest forms of gratitude often do the most good.
Psychologists call this trait gratitude, the ability to consistently notice the good in your life, even in small doses. People who cultivate trait gratitude tend to have:
lower stress and anxiety
better emotional regulation
stronger, more trusting relationships
higher resilience during difficult seasons
And you don’t develop trait gratitude through a once-a-year reflection.
You build it the same way my mom showed up for me, through small, steady moments that add up over time.
Quiet gratitude looks like:
noticing the first warm sip of coffee (If you drink it, hot chocolate for those who like the good stuff)
taking a breath before walking into work and recognizing one thing that feels okay today
paying attention to someone’s softened tone when they speak to you
letting a moment of support actually sink in
remembering who has shown up for you without being asked
Research is clear on this:
You don’t have to feel overwhelmed with gratitude for it to count.
You just have to notice.
Noticing is the practice.
And the practice compounds.
A tiny moment today becomes a little more awareness tomorrow.
A little more grounding next week.
A little more emotional space when life gets chaotic.
For me, quiet gratitude shows up when I think about my mom in those passing moments — when I feel supported, or proud, or when I show up for someone else the way she showed up for me.
It’s not loud.
It’s not dramatic.
But it’s real.
And it changes the way I move through the world.
A Challenge for the Week
Think of the person who has shown up for you in every season — the one who cheered when you were thriving and stayed steady when you weren’t.
Reach out.
Tell them.
Say thank you.
Sometimes gratitude isn’t about grand gestures.
It’s about acknowledging the quiet, consistent love that shaped you — whether you realized it at the time or not.