Finding Calm in the Flock

Sometimes, I feel like I’m holding a whole flock of tiny birds in my hands—precious, fragile, and needing constant care. Not just the kids, though they certainly deserve that sentiment; I mean everyone. Parents, too. The teachers I talk to. Even myself. It's an overwhelming feeling, especially when you realize how quickly those little birds want to fly away.

My practice is full of moments like that. A teenager who wants reassurance that their anxieties are normal. A parent struggling with the constant negotiation of boundaries and screen time. And then there’s me, trying to be a steady presence amidst it all—a calm voice in what often feels like chaotic waters. It's easy to get swept up in the urgency of it all, to feel responsible for every worry and every setback.

I used to chase that feeling – being needed, fixing things. Years ago, I’d spend Sunday evenings dissecting consultations, berating myself for anything that didn't go perfectly smoothly. Looking back now, from this quieter space I've carved out, it feels…exhausting. The weight of so much need felt immense. I was burning the candle at both ends, and honestly, not helping anyone – least of all myself.

This year, though, things shifted a bit. It wasn’t some grand epiphany. Just a gradual realization that I needed to protect my own well-being if I wanted to be any good for anyone else. Taking those Sunday mornings back was the key—just simple time with the kids, sometimes squeezing in a visit to Ludlow Farmers Market and letting the morning unfold organically.

There's something about watching them choose their own peaches and tomatoes, negotiating over whether to get a pastry or not, that just…grounds you. Reminds you of what’s truly important. No emails. No prep work. Just present. And it was like my brain started clearing the dust off itself. Suddenly I had the headspace to actually write that workshop series on adolescent mental health that I'd been avoiding for years. It felt surprisingly easy once I stopped forcing it, once I gave myself permission to just *be*.

Those workshops… they’re important. Navigating adolescence is a minefield of emotions and expectations – their own, our own, the world’s. And I want them to feel seen and heard, truly understood. But being able to *offer* that understanding starts with me first feeling grounded and connected. It's not about having all the answers; it’s about creating a space where they feel safe enough to ask the questions, even the hard ones.

It’s funny how small changes can have such a ripple effect. Sleeping through the night, waking up slowly on Sunday mornings... it’s allowed me to approach my work with more patience and compassion. To listen more intently and judge less quickly. I feel like I'm actually *choosing* to be there, rather than being driven by obligation or fear.

And that, I think, is the most precious gift of all—the ability to choose your own path, to nurture yourself alongside those you care for, and to hold those tiny birds gently, knowing they’ll eventually find their way home. Maybe not always *to* you, but somewhere safe and strong. That has to be enough.