“Because I Said So” Isn’t Leadership: On Raising Kids, Respect, and the Adults We Entrust Them To
Being a parent is no small gig. Between the laundry, the life lessons, and the suspicious silence that usually means something sticky has happened, parenting is a full-contact sport—emotionally, mentally, and sometimes even literally. So, we do what every good parent eventually does - we share the load. We send our kids into the world, into classrooms, onto fields, into clubs, with a whispered hope that the adults we hand them over to will see them, guide them, and speak to them with the same respect and kindness we’re trying to model at home.
We teach our kids to be polite. To listen. To help. To try. We ask them to trust their coaches, club leaders, and teachers. These adults, after all, are the ones who get to shape our children in those precious, everyday moments where growth happens, not with fireworks, but with consistency and connection.
But what happens when those adults, the very ones we hope will mentor, instead manage with meanness? When they lead with sarcasm instead of sensitivity? When they gaslight instead of guide, stonewall instead of support? When their "tough love" is just tough and not at all loving?
This is where the line begins to blur. Because somewhere along the way, we’ve confused control with character-building. We’ve excused exclusion and emotional manipulation as "life lessons." We’ve called yelling “coaching” and silence “discipline.” And when a child, our child, finally says, “This doesn’t feel okay,” we worry they’re being dramatic, ungrateful, or (the ultimate sin in youth sports and school politics) “entitled”.
I work with adults every day who struggle with boundaries. That’s not surprising. Most of us weren’t taught boundaries - we were taught obedience. We were praised for making ourselves small, for being “easy”, for not asking questions. And the message was clear. To be liked, to be successful, to be safe, you had to tolerate a little harm along the way.
So, what happens when a kid today, let’s say a thoughtful, responsible, punctual, hardworking kid, speaks up after being treated poorly by a coach or teacher? They’re often labelled: “sensitive,” “lazy,” “uncoachable,” “quitter.” But what if they’re not any of those things? What if they’re simply practicing something we “say” we value, but rarely model - healthy boundaries?
Let’s be clear. Not every child will make the team, win the award, or get the lead role. That’s life. But every child, every child, deserves to be treated with dignity. They deserve clear, compassionate communication. They deserve leadership that doesn’t crush their spirit to build "grit."
Especially for children with trauma, the adults they encounter outside the home can be lifelines. Teachers, coaches, leaders, they don’t always know it, but to some kids, they are the safe people. They are the reason that child stays engaged, keeps showing up, dares to hope. When those safe places become unsafe, when the grown-ups lead with ego instead of empathy, the damage can be deep, and long-lasting.
So here’s my humble, heartfelt advice to parents:
Teach your children to expect to be treated well. Teach them that kindness is not weakness, and cruelty is not a rite of passage. Help them name their feelings. Help them speak up when something doesn’t sit right. Teach them how to advocate for themselves and how to listen to others doing the same.
And when they draw a line, when they say, “This doesn’t feel good,” believe them. Stand beside them. That’s not entitlement. That’s emotional intelligence in action. That’s the foundation of healthy relationships. That’s resilience with roots.
The truth is, the adults who lead with compassion are not just making kids better athletes, students, or performers. They’re making them better people.
Let’s raise kids who know the difference - and expect better.
Healing The Stuff You Can't See
In June, I hurt myself—spectacularly. Without getting into too much detail, it was an intense game of pickleball. A dramatic pivot was required, but my leg missed the memo. Full ruptures of three ligaments, damage to my meniscus, muscles, tendons, and IT band—essentially, my knee became a floppy fish, aimlessly unattached to the rest of me. What followed was a month of doctors, MRIs, and eventually surgery. Honestly, that part was the easy bit.
The hard part? Realizing that "normal" was now a thing of the past. My leg doesn’t quite feel like mine anymore “Everything” requires some level of physical or mental pep talk, and yes—a child recently compared my gait to a penguin's. (Kids: brutal honesty, questionable tact.) I had no idea how critical a functioning knee was for everything: brushing my teeth, cooking dinner, rolling over in bed. Even standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs now feels like I’m hyping myself up for an Olympic event—minus the glory and plus a lot of deep breathing.
What I really had no idea about, though, was the anxiety. Anxiety that shows up when I twist, step on the ice, or the dog brushes too close. Anxiety that whispers, “What if you re-injure it?” Anxiety that has me in bed more than I’d like—not because I’m the “professional sleeper” I once joked about, but because sometimes my swelling is so bad I can’t feel my toes.
So, is there a silver lining in this ludicrous pickleball saga? Maybe. I've discovered a new compassion for how difficult—and frankly exhausting—it is to reclaim your life after an injury. I started with jokes because, let’s face it, "pickleball injury" is inherently funny. But humour was also a shield, covering up how afraid I was—and still am. As a psychologist, I “should” know how to handle this, right? Except trauma doesn’t care about credentials. It comes in all forms. Sometimes, it makes you pivot. Other times, it makes you not pivot at all.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far:
1. Embrace humour—but don’t use it as avoidance. Laughter lightens the load, but pretending it’s *all* funny keeps you stuck. Sometimes, you have to sit with the dark stuff, too.
2. You don’t have to be toxically positive. Growth and silver linings are great, but you’re also allowed to scream “this sucks” into the void. Healing is hard. Acknowledge the fear, frustration, and anger—hold space for all of it.
3. Learn to accept help. If you’re anything like me, you won’t have much choice. But refusing help doesn’t make you strong; it makes you stubborn. People who love you *want* to help you. Let them. You’re not a superhero. You’re human.
4. Talk to someone. Find a professional who can sit with your story and remind you that recovery isn’t linear—and that’s okay.
5. Practice mindful movement, even when it’s hard. Gentle exercises like stretching, physical therapy routines, or even seated yoga can help you reconnect with your body. Injuries can make us distrust it, but small, intentional movements rebuild that bond over time.
6. Create mini-milestones. Big goals (like “I want to walk normally again”) can feel overwhelming. Instead, focus on smaller, achievable milestones: making it up a flight of stairs, taking a pain-free step, or standing long enough to make a meal. Celebrate those victories—they matter.
7. Find rituals of comfort. Recovery can feel chaotic, so having small, comforting routines helps. Maybe it’s a morning cup of tea, a heating pad before bed, or time spent journaling your progress (even the setbacks). Rituals ground us when everything else feels uncertain.
8. Visualize success—within reason. Positive imagery helps your mind and body get on the same page about progress. It’s not about picturing yourself winning gold medals tomorrow but imagining yourself moving through life with confidence—like gliding up the stairs or strolling through challenges as if they’re just scenic detours.
This advice applies to more than just injuries. When life gets hard, anxiety often feels like the enemy—showing up uninvited, shouting worst-case scenarios. But the truth is, anxiety
is trying to protect us (even if it’s a bit overzealous about its job). The trick is to thank it, reassure it, and move forward anyway.
That said, my pickleball anxiety can stay. I won’t be stepping back on that court. Some pivots just aren’t worth repeating—and I’m entirely at peace with that.
Teenagers are Tough Sometimes
Parenting can be difficult at the best of times. No two children are alike, they do not come with manuals, and as soon as we think we have them figured out, a new curveball is tossed our way. Navigating our own stresses while trying our best to raise kind, successful, productive adults is overwhelming, confusing, and downright exhausting. Parenting advice is everywhere and whether you ask for it or not, you will receive it at some point. Advice can be contradictory, it can seem foreign, and it can give rise to feelings of inadequacy, stress, and fear. I am here to say, take it all with a grain of salt. Take the advice that works for you and leave the rest behind. There is no such thing as a perfect parent.
Just when we finally feel like we have our footing, our children become teenagers. Our children enter this weird stage of needing us and pushing us away, rapid brain development, hormones, crazy emotions, identity development, and navigating the social structures in their lives. They may grunt at you more than they talk to you, they may isolate in their rooms, they may talk back more, and it all seems to change overnight. You are left wondering, what happened to my baby and who is this person in front of me? I often get asked how to talk to teenagers as parents struggle to bridge the newfound gap that seems to open up and swallow their talkative child, spitting out a standoffish, isolated, and sometimes hostile teen!
The first thing is ALWAYS leave the door open, don’t stop talking to them even if you have to become fluent in grunts, nothings, and I don’t knows. This is a time when your patience may wear thin and is tested, however, it is important as you navigate the bumps, twists, and turns in this wild ride we call adolescence. Just know that even though they might not be talking, they are still listening. So, when they are talking to us in words and full sentences, what do we do? We will not necessarily understand them, agree with them, or even want to hear the things they are saying, however, it is important to sit with them, and listen. If they have been brave enough to walk through the door we have left open for them, we need to listen to genuinely hear them.
Don’t listen to respond, just listen to them and to what they are saying. Avoid shame and blame, even as your eyes roll back in your head, and you cannot believe what you are hearing. They are sharing their experiences, fears, ideas, and dreams with you but, if they do not feel safe, they will stop. Judgement has no place here. Does that mean as a parent you have to keep your thoughts to yourself? Absolutely not. Timing, tone, body language, and how we word what we are saying are imperative here. Teenagers, yeah, the ones who cannot seem to get their socks in the laundry hamper, have all your spoons in their room, and leave empty boxes in the pantry can read every single nuance in our conversations. Practice your poker face but don’t be too stoic. It is all about balance.
Sometimes our teens want advice and sometimes they just need someone to care and listen. Validate them, respect their views, and as much as you want to pave a safe secure path for them, free of cracks, detours, bumps, and potholes, we cannot fix everything for our teens. We must sometimes let them stumble and regain their footing. This is their world and we get to be a part of it, but it is scary to watch them fall. It was much easier when we could scoop them up, give them a hug, put a Band-Aid on their knee, and wipe away their tears. Now we have a front-row seat as they walk into the fire, looking back at us and waving as they blindly and excitedly enter places that we know are going to burn them a little. If we are patient, they will come sit beside us as they tend to their new wounds.
However, what do we do if they don’t talk to us at all? Firstly, never give up. Ask them every day how school was, even if you only get the wonderful one-word answer “fine” 5 days a week. While not to be taken too literally, lock them in the car! This means, taking the opportunity to drive them to school, work, or their friends’ houses. This time in the car is great for conversations as they cannot go anywhere. Better yet, drive their friends’ places too. It is amazing what you can learn if you listen to a car full of excited teens. Have dinner at the table, watch their extracurricular events, and ask them about their hobbies (even if you know nothing about the latest video game or social media – be curious). Don’t be afraid to be silly around them, even if they roll their eyes and say “cringe”. If you pay attention, behind that tough teen exterior, you will see a glimmer of your baby laughing at your silliness.
I told you above to take advice with a grain of salt, so who am I to tell you how to talk to your teen? I could recite the classes I have taken, the credentials I have, and the books I have read. However, I won’t. I am a single parent to four teenage boys, all so uniquely different, that I do not know if I am coming or going some days. I have the expertise and yet, some days I am overwhelmed, frustrated, confused, and am trying to do the best I can with the chaos. We are all here, trying to do the best we can with what we have at any given moment (even our teens). Hold them close, be kind to yourself, and know that you will make it through this thing we call the teenage years. Love them and let them know they are always safe with you (emotionally, mentally, and physically) and the rest is gravy. And don’t be afraid to reach out for help, a fresh take on the situation, or a shoulder to cry on.
Grief Sucks
February 8, 2023
Grief sucks! While this may not be what you are expecting from a therapist’s blog, I thought I would tap into the wise words of my 17-year-old son. I struggle with writing blogs and offering advice when I do not know the lived experiences of the readers I may reach. I do know that I am able to blog from the heart and when I am hurting, the words flow. I work with grief nearly daily. I hold space for others and honour the journey they are on. Sometimes we talk about the stages of grief, to make sense of the emotions and feelings arising. However, the process is unique for everyone. I have had my share of grief – the grief that comes with an ended relationship, the loss of a loved one, the loss of a pet or the end of a chapter. This week I have been navigating a whole new level of grief, one that I cannot get my head around. When my son said “Mom, it makes no sense, this sucks”, I had to agree.
I had to deliver the news to my son that his best friend for the last five years, his confidant, his person, had been killed in a car accident. My boys have never had to cope with grief and as my heart broke into a million pieces, I knew that I had to hold the space for him to navigate something unfamiliar, scary, confusing, and devastating. As much as I wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap, take the pain from him by avoiding it, and stop the hurt from getting to him, I knew that this is a path he must travel so I would have to walk beside him. I could not lead and fight the unknown ahead, I could not stay behind and just watch. I tried to eliminate bumps that I could foresee. I made sure I had someone with him so he was not alone, I coached his three brothers to be gentle and aware but I was not prepared for the grief and compassion they would feel for their brother. I practiced what I would say and while helpful, it didn’t ease the pain that washed over his face as he tried to comprehend the words coming out of my mouth.
I couldn’t fix this one. I couldn’t make sense of it for him. I couldn’t protect him. I had to hold space for him, not as a therapist but as a mother. The last few days I have had to watch him ride waves of grief and confusion, I have listened while he described waking up and believing it was a terrible mistake, I have watched him cry, I have watched him laugh, I have watched him sit in silence staring out the window. I excused him from school and told him to call into work because, in my mind, he needed this to grieve. He took an extra shift last night and asked me if he could go to school today. He is grieving in a way that comes to him, and I am learning that I must trust his journey as I do the journey of those I work with.
I am also learning that I have 3 other sons who are grieving for their brother and his friend. It doesn’t make sense to them either. The fear when they feel the immediacy and reality of how quickly things can change, the empathy when they realize it could have been their best friend is forefront. As a mom, I am trying to honour my grief as well. I tell folks all the time to acknowledge their emotions and not push them down and I have noticed I have been doing that as I try to be strong and resilient for my sons. The boys have seen my tears, I have held them while they let go of theirs, and we have talked about death and about how much this sucks. There is no therapeutic word that fits better, it just sucks.
I wanted to write this blog to show the commonality we have, as humans, in the uniqueness of our journeys. There is no textbook or guide that will perfectly help you navigate your own grief or the grief of the ones you love. Hold space for yourself, hold space for the ones you love and allow and trust that you will grieve the best you know how at any given moment and that it is ok. Allow yourself and others the grace to grieve in a way that feels right. There is no shame in grieving differently from others, there is no right way or wrong way. It is a process that is helped by the love and support of others yet is so individual. Reach out to others, ask for help when you need it, and know that you do not have to be alone when you are grieving.
I reached out to a friend, who lost her daughter and has had to navigate grief that I cannot imagine, asking for advice on how to hold space and honour the mother of my son’s friend. Her advice was simple and filled with love, acknowledging how difficult yet necessary it is to walk alongside others during loss. She asked me my son’s friend's name, as it is so important to continue saying the names of those we have lost. So, as I prepare to take my son to see his friend’s family, I am wiping tears from my eyes. Thank you, WYATT, for being the best friend my son could ever have. You have a place in our hearts forever, he will miss you dearly but knows you will always be close.