Becoming a parent

I often reflect on my own life; on how different I am from the way I was raised. I grew up frum, with a clear vision of what life was meant to look like: to marry at a certain age, to live within a certain community, to uphold the values I was taught.

I deeply wanted that life. And yet, my circumstances unfolded differently. There were challenges and obstacles that neither I nor my parents anticipated. I tried, in many ways, to stay within the path I had been given; but ultimately, it became clear that Hashem had other plans for me.

I can imagine that for my parents, this has been, and still is, difficult.

I can only imagine how it feels to want something so desperately for the child you had, raised, and supported, yet who did not turn out the way he/she was ‘supposed’ to. I wonder about the unspoken grief in parenting: the realization that the child, and the life, you imagined for them may not be the reality in front of you.

There is a real sadness there. Perhaps a heavy burden to bear.

Sometimes, despite all guidance, a child will choose differently.

Sometimes, despite all your hope and dreams, there is another path forward for them, one that is different than the one you, or the community imagined.

Sometimes the path is straightforward and easy.

And sometimes it is not.

I think that some parents feel the weight of the community. The weight of their values. The weight of their child choosing things not being how they taught.

But how do we then reconcile that children are not extensions of their parents?

Rather, children are individuals entrusted to them.

Each child is created differently, with their own temperament, mind, sensitivities, and way of engaging with the world. What comes naturally to one may not come naturally to another; and what feels right for a parent may not always be aligned for a child.

Coming to this acceptance is not a failure. It is an act of deep recognition; that each person is created בצלם אלוקים, with their own path, their own calling, and their own way of living a meaningful life.

Coming to this acceptance can be difficult no doubt, but it is honoring the individual, it is honoring your child’s power to choose his or her own life, his or her own values, his or her own integrity.

This is powerful.

It is hard to let go.

But as we do, we start to shift our thinking:

How do I understand who this child already is, trust that I have guided them well, and leave the rest to G-d?

As a parent, there comes a time when one must:

Trust that the values you planted will take root in their own way.
Trust that a life lived with authenticity and integrity is not lesser, only different.
Trust that something meaningful is unfolding, even if it is not yet fully understood.

I have not yet learned this lesson as a parent, I can only imagine it. But I do know what it feels like to live a life that did not turn out the way I once envisioned. And slowly, I am learning to trust the process, to allow my life to become the one Hashem intends for me.

I hope to have a child soon.

And when I do, I hope I will live the lesson I am still learning now:

That moving from the life we were handed to the life we choose is not an act of rejection; it is an act of alignment.

It is trusting that Hashem is guiding the process for all of His precious children.

The moment after.

There’s a moment that comes right after yelling. At first, there’s relief - you got it out, you said what needed to be said, you expressed your anger and frustration, you set a boundary. But then something heavier settles in. If you’re someone empathetic, relief quickly turns into regret and sadness. You start asking yourself: why did I yell? Did it have to come out that way? Did they even hear me, or just my tone? Even when you’re right, yelling rarely feels aligned with the kind of person you want to be.

Anger itself isn’t the problem. It’s a natural emotion, often coming from a place of not feeling safe, not being heard, or having your boundaries crossed. But the way we express that anger matters. The goal isn’t to suppress it, but to channel it with control and clarity. For many of us, yelling was modeled as normal. We grew up around it, so we absorbed it. Sometimes we lash out quickly; other times we hold everything in until something finally breaks us open.

Sometimes the pain runs deeper than the moment itself. When someone you hoped would understand you instead dismisses you, crosses your boundaries, or unintentionally gaslights you, it creates a different kind of hurt. You may find yourself grieving the loss of trust, realizing they can’t meet you where you are, even if they love you. That gap between love and understanding can be deeply painful.

In Judaism, there’s a concept called Teshuva; a process of return and repair. It offers a way to move forward without falling into shame. Especially for sensitive people, conflict can lead to an emotional crash, but Teshuva creates a path through it. It asks you to take accountability for your actions, commit to doing better next time, and make amends where appropriate. And yes, sometimes that feels unfair. Why apologize when your boundaries were crossed? But Teshuva isn’t about excusing the other person, it’s about staying aligned with your own values.

You can make amends without restoring trust. You can acknowledge that yelling wasn’t the right response while still honoring that you were hurt. Both things can be true. You might say, “I shouldn’t have yelled - that wasn’t the right way to express myself,” while still holding onto the truth that your feelings matter. Healing doesn’t always mean reconciliation; sometimes it simply means clarity.

This becomes especially important in parenting. When you yell at your child, what matters most is repair, not perfection. You can be honest: “I was overwhelmed and I yelled. That wasn’t okay. I’m still upset, but I should have handled it differently.” That kind of accountability teaches far more than pretending to always be in control. And it’s a powerful way forward: you find yourself modeling a new way for your children, and for yourself.

You don’t have to repeat what you inherited. You can feel anger without becoming it. You can set boundaries without raising your voice. You can take accountability without collapsing into shame. Teshuva allows you to face yourself and say: I made a mistake, I am human, and I am choosing to grow from it. That’s how patterns break. That’s how healing happens.

After Nachshon: A continuation.

There’s a moment after the miracle that no one prepares you for.

We talk about the courage of Nachshon stepping into the sea: that raw, unreasonable faith that moves a person forward before the path is clear. We glorify the going, the doing, the crossing. But we don’t often sit in the quiet question that follows:

Now what?

The sea has split. The song has been sung. You’ve left what was behind.
And yet, you’re not there.

This is where the Jewish journey really begins.

The desert is not just a place. It’s a state of being. A long stretch of in-between where the old identity has dissolved, but the new one hasn’t fully formed. It’s disorienting. There’s no map, no permanence; just movement, dependence, and a strange kind of intimacy with the unknown.

The Jews wandered for years, and yes, they made mistakes. The episode of the spies reveals something deeply human: fear in the face of possibility. Giants in the land, fruit too large to comprehend; abundance itself became overwhelming. They were not just afraid of failure; they were afraid of expansion.

And so they stalled.

But what if that delay wasn’t just punishment? What if it was also preparation?

In the desert, everything was stripped down. There was no illusion of control. Food came from the sky. Protection came from above. The Shechinah was not abstract, it was experienced. They were held in a way that left no room for self-deception.

It was, in many ways, a process of spiritual detox.

Today, we might describe something similar through the language of psychology. Third-wave behavioral therapies like DBT and ACT speak of radical acceptance, of allowing reality to be what it is, without the constant internal fight. Acceptance and Commitment Therapy teaches us to notice our thoughts without fusing to them, to release the need to control every internal experience, and instead commit to living in alignment with deeper values.

It sounds modern.

But I can’t help but wonder if it echoes something ancient.

Kabbalat ol malchut shamayim means accepting the yoke of Heaven.

For many of us, that phrase carries weight. Obligation. Pressure. A sense of being bound to something external, something imposed. I think of how I was raised; the structure, the expectations, the lack of perceived choice. There were moments it felt constricting. Pesach especially: the endless preparations, the cracked hands from peeling and cleaning, the exhaustion of doing what had to be done.

And yet… those same memories are layered.

There was closeness. Family. Shared effort. Laughter in the kitchen. The sweetness of hardened sugar that had spent all night boiling. There was something alive within the structure something connective, even expansive.

Maybe we misunderstood the metaphor.

An ol, a yoke, is often imagined as something heavy: an instrument of labor placed upon an animal. But the root of the word hints at something else: olah to rise, to meet up.

What if kabbalat ol is not about being weighed down, but being received?

Not submission in the sense of losing oneself, but in the sense of opening oneself.

True acceptance is not passive. It is one of the most active, courageous positions a person can take. It means releasing the illusion that we must understand everything, control everything, resolve everything before we move forward.

It means stepping into the desert and saying:
I don’t know what comes next, but I am willing to be here.

The Jews had to learn that tension. To hold both doubt and faith. To not collapse into fear of the material (“the giants are too big”) nor lose themselves in ungrounded spiritual intensity (like Nadav and Avihu, who reached too high, too fast).

There is a middle space; a grounded openness.

Maybe that is the continuation after Nachshon.

Not just the courage to step forward once, but the willingness to keep walking when there is no clear destination. To live in the unfolding. To receive rather than grasp. To align rather than control.

To accept, not as resignation, but as relationship.

Kabbalat ol then becomes something softer, and more approachable. We take on the mitzvot, or our connection to G-d, not as commandments, but as connections that help us rise up to something more than ourselves.

Not a burden we carry, but a reality we enter.

Not something that confines us, but something that expands us beyond the limits of our own understanding.

And maybe the question isn’t “now what?” as in what do I do next?

Maybe the deeper question is:

How do I stay open to what is unfolding, with complete faith in being received, even when I don’t recognize it yet?

What’s in the way is the way.

I've been having a difficult time lately with analysis paralysis. Or really, choice making.

Sometimes it's great to have choices. But when the choices are too many, it becomes difficult. And when you are a person with executive function deficits in planning and choice making, like me, they become overwhelming.

Right now, there are so many choices to be made.

Do I stay in Florida?
Do I choose to date?
Do I open a business?
Or do I try for a baby (something I want with all my heart?)

I've been thinking about the phrase, “what is in the way is the way.”

And now that Passover is coming up, I keep thinking about the Red Sea.

When the Jews left Egypt, they came right up to the sea. It was a huge wall of water, and God had told them to cross it. Many were afraid. I know if I was alive then, I wouldn’t have trusted Him either.

You want me to walk through that? I don’t think so.

So it makes sense that they wanted to go back to what was familiar. Go back to their comfort zone. Go back to their Egypt jail.

I get it.

It’s easier to go back to what you know: even the discomfort of it. It’s much harder to believe that there is an indescribable future right ahead when you’ve been enslaved for so long.

But then there was Nachshon.

He said, even though there is this huge barrier in front of me, this huge wall of water, I’m going to go on regardless. Because this is what G-d has told me. This is what I know to be true.

I wonder if all my choices are like that big ocean wall.

To me, it looks overwhelming and a bit terrifying. Also… there are sea monsters in the sea ;)

But maybe I just have to go forward anyway.

Going back is not an option.

I spoke to a single parent this morning. She has twins: beautiful and intelligent 5-year-olds with autism. She runs a cleaning and organizing business full time, and on top of that, she works another job in the evenings because she just has to.

I told her it was commendable, and she laughed. Because what choice does she really have?

She has to provide for her kids.
She wants a better life for them.

I keep thinking about that big wall of water in front of me.

Maybe I just have to stop thinking so much and just go. Keep doing. Keep building.

Writing definitely helps.

The story goes that Nachshon walked into the water up to his neck. up to his nostrils. And it was at that moment that Moshe lifted his staff and the sea split.

There is personal meaning for me in that image of the water reaching the neck. That is where I had surgery, and it represents a very difficult time in my life.

At that time, I fell apart.

But do I choose differently this time?
Do I choose to keep going, or fall apart?

Some say the water reached his nostrils.

The breath that the nostrils inhale and exhale, and the word neshama, soul, share the same root. There is something about that moment, at the level of breath, where you can’t rely on thinking anymore.

There is a core, soul-knowing that you just have to keep going, no matter what.

I don’t necessarily know what choices I have to make, or what actions to take, or even what it really means that “what is in the way is the way.”

But what I do know is that I just have to start taking steps, in the confusion, in the mess- and be okay with whatever scary sea monsters might be there.

My neshama knows it will all work out in the end.

Regulation and Behavior.

There’s a moment that happens often in my work.

A child throws something across the room.
A teen shuts down and refuses to speak.
An adult says, “I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

And the question that follows is usually:
How do we stop the behavior?

But I’ve learned to ask a different question first.

What is the nervous system doing right now?

Behavior is not random.

We often treat behavior as something to reduce, shape, or fix.
And yes, behavior matters. It impacts learning, relationships, safety.

But behavior doesn’t come out of nowhere.

It is organized by the nervous system.

Every action: avoidance, aggression, withdrawal, even compliance is rooted in a physiological state:

• Is the body feeling safe?

• Is it overwhelmed?

• Is it mobilized to fight or flee?

• Is it shut down?

When we skip this layer, we end up responding to behavior without understanding what’s driving it.

The nervous system is always asking one question: Am I safe?

Before a child can follow an instruction, join a peer, or tolerate frustration, their nervous system is scanning:

Is this safe enough?

If the answer is yes : you see curiosity, flexibility, learning
If the answer is no: you see:

• avoidance

• rigidity

• big emotional reactions

• or complete shutdown

These aren’t bad behaviors.

They are adaptive responses.

What looks like noncompliance might be dysregulation.

A child who won’t listen”may not be choosing not to listen.

They may be:

• flooded

• overstimulated

• unsure how to process what’s being asked

• lacking the internal regulation to respond

From the outside, it looks like defiance.
From the inside, it feels like overwhelm.

And this is where our approach matters.

In traditional behavior frameworks, we often move quickly to:

• prompts

• reinforcement

• consequences

But if the nervous system is dysregulated, these strategies don’t land the way we expect.

Because the brain literally isn’t in a state to receive them.

So we shift the sequence:

Connection - Regulation - Learning

This might look like:

• softening your voice

• reducing demands

• sitting nearby without pressure

• using rhythm, play, or sensory input

• co-regulating before asking for compliance

It’s not “giving in.”
It’s creating the conditions where behavior can actually change.

Children don’t learn regulation in isolation.

They borrow it.

From your tone.
Your pacing.
Your presence.

When we stay grounded, we offer their nervous system something to organize around.

Over time, this becomes internalized.

So where does ABA fit into this?

This is the question I care deeply about.

Behavioral strategies are powerful.
But they become more effective: not less, when paired with nervous system awareness.

Because:

• reinforcement works better when the child feels safe

• prompting is more effective when the brain is regulated

• skill acquisition depends on access to attention and flexibility

The roots of ABA can be confronting. It comes from a compliance model.

But we should never be teaching children to comply.

We should be supporting their growth to become the best versions of themselves.

When we apply this to our understanding of the science of human behavior, we deepen our understanding of our clients and ourselves.

We move from:

• “How do I stop this?”
  to

• “What is this telling me the learner?What is this telling me?”

We become less reactive, less controlling.
More curious.
More attuned.

And often, the behavior begins to change, not because we forced it to but because the system underneath it finally feels supported.

Underneath every behavior is a body trying to find safety, balance, and connection.

And when we learn to work with that system,
not against it we don’t just change behavior.

We change everything.

Language as reinforcement.

One of the things I’ve been thinking about lately in the field of ABA is how little attention we give to language itself as a form of reinforcement.

We talk constantly about reinforcement as an intervention: what to deliver, when to deliver it, how to schedule it. But we often overlook one of the most immediate, powerful, and ever-present tools we have:

The way we speak.

I’ve had moments where I felt punished purely through language.
Not because anyone intended to harm, but because, as a sensitive person, I absorbed the tone, the phrasing, the delivery. I walked away feeling small, singled out, and discouraged.

And that’s what struck me:

What if the science of behavior change applies just as much to how we speak as it does to what we deliver?

Because it does.

If we take reinforcement seriously, we have to expand how we define it.

• Tone of voice can reinforce safety or shame.

• Wording can reinforce effort or inadequacy.

• Ratio of positive to negative statements shapes motivation and persistence.

• Body language can reinforce connection or disapproval.

• Confidence we communicate can reinforce independence or doubt.

Even something as simple as “good job” is not universally reinforcing.

For some learners, praise can feel flat, meaningless, or even aversive.

But for many, it matters deeply.

Which means we can’t just ask: “Am I reinforcing?”

We have to ask:
“How is my language functioning for this person?”

Language doesn’t have to be harsh to be punishing.

• A flat tone

• A rushed correction

• A subtle comparison

• A questioning look of doubt

These can all decrease behavior, not because of intent, but because of impact.

And this is where we, as clinicians, educators, and parents, have to be especially thoughtful.

Because intent does not determine function. Impact does.

Approaches like SPACE (Supportive Parenting for Anxious Childhood Emotions) offer a helpful framework through supportive statements:

“I know this is hard, and I know you can handle it.”

This kind of language does two things at once:

• Validates the difficulty

• Reinforces the child’s competence

That balance is powerful.

Compare that to:

• “Are you sure you can do it?”

• “Look, they can do it.”

Depending on the child, these might reinforce self-doubt, dependence, or comparison.

Even well-meaning questions can shape behavior in ways we don’t intend.

Language can quietly teach:

• “You need me to succeed”

  or

• “You are capable, and I’m here with you”

When our words lead a child to over-rely on us, we may be reinforcing dependence.

When our words communicate belief in their ability, we reinforce autonomy.

If we truly embrace behavioral principles, then we have to widen our lens.

Reinforcement isn’t just tokens, edibles, or rewards.

It’s:

• The tone we carry

• The words we choose

• The expressions on our face

• The emotional climate we create

Language is not neutral. It is always doing something.

So the next time you think about the types of reinforcement you are collecting for your learner (the tangibles, the break opportunities, the attention opportunities, the token boards) add this question to the mix:

“What is my language reinforcing?”

Pushing color: Contrast and nuance

II was sitting in a café last week when I noticed a photograph of flamingos on a lake. The contrast was turned all the way up. The flamingos burned bright orange against the water. It was striking, almost impossible to ignore.

It made me wonder what draws our attention so quickly. I tend to like bright color, and a bright splash of paint will certainly get my attention. But for others, it’s something else, a beautiful flower, a piece of architecture, a note of music. It made me think about the creative interests people have, all so different and unique from one another.

At the time, I was sitting with a friend, and I felt inspired to ask him what he would create if he could do anything artistic.

“Geometric paintings,” he said. He told me it’s something he’s always been drawn to but never explored.

I loved that answer for him. Geometry is bold. Defined. Clear lines, strong contrast—nothing ambiguous.

Later, as we were walking through the Wynwood Walls, I couldn’t stop noticing it: intense lines, color, patterns that declare themselves. Art that doesn’t hesitate.

That is one way of seeing.

Then today, I was in art class and was directed to a very different way of seeing.

I was creating a surrealist painting of an animal, and I had to build form through subtle shades of color. As I worked, I began to notice nuance and detail. My art teacher gently redirected me a number of times to soften my brush, to dab here and there, to notice how the color shifted from dark to light, blending from warm to cold. I kept getting muddled, and each time he helped me, he said the same thing: put the color down without fear, flesh out the middle tones.

He was asking me to stop being afraid of nuance, of how color transitions, how light and shadow live together. Eventually, it all comes together. He was teaching me to stop holding the reins so tightly. Not everything is meant to be sharply defined.

It struck me: this isn’t just about painting.

I realized I tend to live in extremes. I reach for black or white. It is easier, clearer, less intimidating.

I remember learning to drive. I held onto that steering wheel for dear life. It took me ages to relax enough to get onto the highway. In art, the in-between (the blending, the subtle shifts, the slow forming of something) feels like that early stage of driving. And yet now, after more than 20 years, I can move down the highway with ease, only lightly holding the wheel. I trust that I know where I’m going and how to get there safely.

Life requires trust and patience.

Yes, there is still a part of me that enjoys being bold, direct, high contrast: wanting to plan, to control, to know.

And there is also a part of me that is learning to see fluidity: the soft blending of nuance, the willingness to stay in the unknown until shape begins to form. Learning to trust the process.

Both ways of seeing are important.

The question I’m sitting with is:
Do I know when to be each?

When to push color clearly, confidently, to plan, to take charge?

And when to let things unfold more quietly? To be more patient?

It is something I am still learning, just like my art.

Life, like art, isn’t just about contrast or nuance.

It’s about knowing when and how to use the ways we’ve learned to see. To be intentional about what we sharpen, what we soften, what we avoid altogether. To notice when we are being bold, and when we are being more subtle.

What about you? Are you fixed in one way of seeing, gripping tightly to clarity? Are you holding on to the orange flamingo or the geometry? Or do you find yourself drifting into too much uncertainty, where the lines blur and boundaries begin to fade?

Do you even realize it?

With noticing and realization, something softens. You begin to see when and how you are using these different ways of being. You step out of autopilot. You start to really see, instead of wondering how you got here.

With noticing, there’s a little more room. A little more movement. You begin to sense when something wants to be held more firmly, and when it might be better to let it unfold.

It doesn’t happen all at once, or perfectly. But with more awareness, you begin to allow something new to emerge, a space where new kinds of possibility begins to take shape.

A prayer at 40.

It’s a big one coming up this week.
Somewhat terrifying.
I am turning 40.

Forty feels like a moment when life quietly asks you to take stock of what has been, and what has not yet arrived.

It’s a big number. Bigger because I am still single. Bigger because I’ve just moved to a new state and am still finding myself and my people. Bigger because I can’t pretend not to dye my hair anymore, and the lines on my face are starting to appear. Bigger because the kids I went to school with are about to have grandchildren, and I feel so disconnected from the reality that once was.

There are many feelings arising, and I’m sure they will continue to arise.

On the one hand, I am so grateful for what I have accomplished. But there is also a wistful feeling that rises again and again: What am I doing wrong? Why does the thing I long for most still feel just out of reach?

And yet, life is good. In fact, it is better than it has ever been.

I am enjoying my work.
I love where I live.
I like who I am becoming.

It has been a long forty-year journey to arrive here, and in many ways, I have arrived.

But somehow, I am still missing the thing I have been yearning for.

I hope that G-d will answer my prayers this year. I feel more open than I have before, and yet I am still hesitant. What makes this year different?

I have seen how the world turns for people. Sometimes for the best, sometimes for the worst, and sometimes simply in ways that no one could have predicted. In some ways, part of me hopes things will just stay the same. Even though this is not the life I once imagined or hoped for, at least it is not worse.

Still, I wish I could welcome forty with open arms, with complete belief that what I hope for will come.

Sometimes I wonder if my time simply passed, and if what was meant to come in my twenties somehow didn’t, and now G-d has more urgent matters to attend to.

After all, there are bigger problems now: pandemics, wars, the fragile state of the world.

As a child, I believed my dreams and wishes were so important. Now I see how small I am in the vastness of everything. That realization is both humbling and scary.

Perhaps this age comes with something else: wisdom. The understanding that acceptance is often the only way to live peacefully in this world.

Of course, I could try harder. Believe harder. Push harder. But the truth is, I have already done that for most of my life.

So perhaps my calling now is something different: to work more wisely, and to trust that the efforts I have already made will eventually bear fruit.

I don’t know if I really have another choice.

So my prayer for this year is simple:

May Hashem grant me a partner.

May He help me continue to support and influence others in ways that feel real, authentic, and true.
May He grant me children.
And May He grant me serenity and wisdom come what may.

I pray that these things come in the most beautiful way, and in a way that does not require such relentless striving.

I pray most of all, that the next decade will reveal that nothing was late at all, only quiet preparation for all to arrive at the right time.

Amen.

Bonsai.

A number of months ago, my father asked me, in my professional opinion, what makes children act up, or simply not listen.

At the time I gave him a somewhat half-formed answer. ( I said something along the lines of: what we might call bad behavior is often just maladaptive behavior, shaped by the environment, by what the child has experienced, by the variables around them.)

That’s not half of the answer :)

Children enter the world with an instinct for exploration and play. Everything is new. Everything is interesting. Everything invites curiosity. They touch things, test things, try things out. And because of this, children don’t become kind or respectful simply because they are told to. Not if there are competing excitements or experiences that can shape who they are and who they are becoming.

We see this often when a child grabs something, yells, refuses, or pushes boundaries. What adults experience as defiance often looks, from the child’s side, like an attempt to understand how the world works. What happens when they push this boundary? What will they get to experience? What thrills happen on the other side? What will they learn? A child pushing the boundaries is organizing his or her world into so much more than just ‘good’ or bad’. Feelings, sensations, identity, values are all part of the boundary pushing.

Sometimes those experiments look to us like misbehavior.

But from a child’s eye, it’s exploration. Children often aren’t trying to misbehave. Interestingly, the moment they “act out” becomes the moment they start learning.

They learn what thrill, excitement, experience, all look like. And most of all, they learn information about who their parents are by how they respond to their behavior.

They watch us. They imitate us. They notice the tone of our voice, the expression on our face, the way we handle frustration ourselves.

The way we guide children is just as important as what we teach them.

It is important to recognize that before we try to shape a child, we have to pause long enough to notice who they actually are. Their exploration. Their temperament. Their sensitivities. The way their mind works. The way their heart works.

While all children love to explore, they do so in different ways. Some children are naturally logical. When you explain why something matters, they can reason through it. They may decide to follow a rule because it makes sense to them. Other children explore through emotional meaning. They experience the world in a much deeper way. A stern look that helps one child correct their behavior might deeply wound another. Not because they are weak, but because their emotional world is simply wired differently.

Their emotions, their temperament, and the way their mind works are unique. The same rule, the same tone of voice, the same consequence can land very differently depending on the child. (And remember, as humans, we tend to focus on what is wrong, but constant criticism rarely shapes behavior, adult or child!) More often, it discourages.

Encouragement shapes behavior much more effectively, no matter the child.

One of the most powerful things we can do as parents and educators is notice when children do something right.

If a sensitive child runs through the house with muddy shoes, you might gently show them the right way, help them go back and clean it, and praise them for fixing it.

If a more logical child does the same thing, you might explain clearly and firmly why the behavior wasn’t appropriate, and then have them correct it again, praising them when they do.

Notice your child’s goodness. Praise the effort when they correct themselves. Be especially gentle with the children who need that gentleness the most.

Another thing to recognize is that while consequence often may look like something that happens on the outside, often the real consequence is how something feels inside us. Feelings like embarrassment, pride, guilt, excitement, or even a deeper question of values : Is this the kind of person I want to be? affect our internal systems immensely.

Some children feel an extraordinary amount of guilt or shame for doing something, and that itself is a huge consequence. Maybe instead of them having an immense amount of guilt, we can evoke a sense of huge pride and accomplishment when they are praised for doing the right thing.

For that child, a better response for a misbehavior might be calm guidance : gently explaining the rule, modeling the right behavior, and showing why the value behind the rule matters. Sometimes even connecting it to family life: how certain behaviors make things smoother, happier, easier for everyone. In my work with nervous system regulation, a calm and regulated parent goes a long way to support behavior, and makes them want to do their best.

More than that, the best thing a parent or caregiver can do is immediately giving the child the chance to try again, while modeling it in an attuned manner.

“Let’s try that one more time”. Take them by the hand and show them the right way, calmly, maturely.

When they succeed, praise them. Reassure them. Let them feel the satisfaction of doing something right.

Very often, that child didn’t intend to misbehave at all. They were just trying to navigate a complicated world. Remember that the real teachers are consistency, kindness, modeling, and guidance. These all take time, and are not an expectation the first time we share them.

When children feel seen for what they are doing right, something begins to shift. Behavior begins to change, not because they are afraid of being wrong, but because they are slowly being shaped to be the best versions of themselves, in the most reassuring and nurturing way.

Growing resilient Jewish children.

It’s a changing world.

I grew up in Australia hearing that antisemitism existed, but it wasn’t something I experienced directly. Yes, my father stood out with his long beard and hat, but he treated others with respect and people generally treated him with respect in return. My childhood felt safe.

Children today are growing up in a very different reality.

In places like New York, you see anti-Jewish or anti-Israel slogans on walls. Magen Davids are crossed out. Social media filled with hostility. I’ve seen caricatures of Jews with exaggerated “long noses,” references to Jews as “coin clippers,” and endless comments about the “chosen nation,” often twisting Jewish language about goyim in ways meant to demean.

It doesn’t matter that this isn’t how I, growing up as an ultra religious Jewish woman, was raised.

I was never taught to think negatively about others. In fact, so many of the values central to Judaism emphasize the opposite: creating a better world, being a positive light for ourselves and for others.

There is a well-known teaching: Derech Eretz Kadmah L’Torah - proper conduct comes before Torah. Kindness, humility, respect, and caring for others are meant to come first. Jewish schools teach children to behave with dignity and kindness toward everyone.

But still, we have to ask: where does that leave us? And where does that leave our children, who are growing up in this new world?

For adults, it can be frightening. We read the news, see the comments, and feel the shift in the atmosphere. We try to shield our children from as much of that fear as possible.

At the same time, it is our responsibility to raise them with a strong sense of who they are.

There are a few messages I believe are essential.

First, the knowledge that Hashem loves them and watches over them. Whatever happens in the world, they are not alone.

Second, the understanding that they can be strong in their identity as Jews. Jewish identity has survived centuries of difficulty not by disappearing, but by deepening.

Third, that they can be kind and compassionate to themselves and be safe in their own individual personalities and innermost being, despite all the change in the world. They can be resilient and strong inside, for themselves first, and by extension, for others.

Practically this means that we teach children to notice moment to moment experience and be kind to their own reality. That doesn’t mean dwelling on it, but it’s knowing that sometimes the world can be scary but they will be ok and we have the capacity to take care of ourselves no matter what happens. Knowing this, they will learn to have the ability to take care of themselves and others.

Lately I’ve been thinking about a mindfulness practice that I use most days, and I believe it can be helpful for children as well.

It’s very simple: noticing the breath.

Breathing in and out. Noticing the breath’s shape, its warmth or coolness, the way the stomach expands and softens. And inevitably, the mind wanders. Thoughts come in: worries, plans, distractions.

When you notice that happening, you gently return to the breath.

In and out.

The goal of the exercise is not to perfectly focus on the breath. Actually, the goal is the returning. Getting distracted, and then remembering to come back. Keep coming back to who you are.

In many ways, life right now feels similar. There are many things in the world that can pull our attention and frighten us: endless scrolling, rising antisemitism, arguments online, voices that try to define us.

It is easy to get lost in that noise.

But when we become aware that we’ve drifted, we can return: just like the breath.

Return to who we are.

Return to our resilience.
Return to our compassion.
Return to our inner strength.

And we can teach our children to do the same.

No matter what the world looks like around them, they can keep coming back to their values, their identity, and their connection to Hashem.

Just like the breath: steady, returning, always there.

And with that grounding, we trust that Hashem continues to take care of all of us.

Mind and Heart.

You wake up in the morning already anxious.

Before your feet hit the floor, your heart is pounding. Your mind starts scanning the day. So much to do. So many responsibilities. Your chest feels tight before you’ve even taken a full breath.

You notice it.

And almost immediately, your response is cognitive.

“But I can handle this.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“This is nothing I haven’t done before.”

You try to pump yourself up. You try to reason with yourself. You push forward.

But your heart is still racing. Your body is still tight.

If you have a strong, regulated nervous system, you might be able to power through the day. You’ll override the sensations and keep going. But if you’re already depleted, at some point you may feel yourself collapse. Foggy. Irritable. Exhausted. Maybe even ashamed.

“What is wrong with me?”
“Why can’t I just do it?”

And so again, you go cognitive. More affirmations. More pushing. More self-talk.

Isn’t it interesting that when we are feeling sensation — tight chest, short breath, heaviness, pressure, our first instinct is to argue with it?

We try to think our way out of something that is happening in the body.

But what if the body is the one speaking?

I’ve been thinking about the phrase in the Tanya: Moach shalit al halev . the mind rules over the heart.

Traditionally, it’s often understood as using the mind to override or redirect emotion. And there are times when that makes sense. If you’re about to give a speech and your heart is racing from adrenaline, a strong inner voice saying, “You’ve got this,” can be helpful.

But what about the quieter, heavier mornings? The ones where you wake up already overwhelmed?

What if Moach shalit al halev doesn’t mean forcing the heart into submission?

What if it means the mind has the capacity to notice?

The mind is still in charge, but instead of commanding, it observes.

Instead of saying, “Push through,” it says, “Your body is talking. Let’s listen.”

When you slow down enough to actually pay attention, you may notice the anxiety isn’t just a concept. It has a texture. A location. Maybe a color. Maybe a shape. Maybe it feels like grief. Maybe like pressure.

And when the mind begins to notice the body without trying to fix it, something shifts.

The breath changes. Not because you forced it, but because your body feels seen.

The tightness in your chest might soften and move. What felt like a sharp pain in your sternum becomes a dull ache in your neck. The color changes. The shape disperses.

Your mind checks in again.

Your body slows down.

Rather than forcing yourself to breathe, you realize you are being breathed.

For me, this is what Moach shalit al halev really means. Not domination. Not suppression. Not positive affirmations layered over distress.

Leadership.

A king is only a king if there are willing followers. A forced heart is a sad one.

When the mind and heart work together, when the mind listens instead of commands, integration happens.

And sometimes, after just a few minutes of noticing, something surprising occurs.

The anxiety that felt overwhelming begins to dissipate.

Your body feels lighter.

And instead of dragging yourself out of bed, you find yourself ready to begin.

Attunement and ABA

As a therapist, most of what I do is listen. Not just to words, but to the body and the nervous system. I listen for what is happening underneath what someone is saying, and I adjust my responses so we can stay connected and engaged. Some days I do this better than others.

What I have been thinking about lately is that counseling practice really prepares us for this relational awareness, but ABA, which is fundamentally about relationship, rarely talks about it directly.

I noticed it recently while observing an RBT working with a client. She was implementing the program perfectly. The targets were clear, the prompts were appropriate, and she was moving through the goals efficiently. From a technical standpoint, she was doing everything “right.”

Yet something wasn’t working.

She couldn’t understand why the client was “getting aggressive” (her words) when she was “doing all the right things.”

In ABA, what we would do for the childs aggressive behavior is a functional analysis. What is the topography of the behavior? What is an operational definition ? What are the ABC’s of the behavior ? And we would come up with a function. In this instance escape maintained behavior may be more likely, but a FA would be able to support our hypothesis.

Moments like that make me think about attunement in ABA practice. It’s something that almost never gets talked about, yet it is happening all the time.

In ABA we talk a lot about programs, goals, and data. We want to move from A to B to C. Our trend lines matter. Insurance matters. Stakeholders matter.

But sometimes we forget the basics of human interaction.

What I was noticing in my observation of client and RBT that she was working him very hard without breaks, and with high intensity. Tone of voice was direct and curt. Body language was controlled and somewhat distant. Was she aware of her own body language and how she was affecting him? Was she aware of the subtle pressure she might have been putting on the interaction? How was his body feeling due to this interaction? Was he overwhelmed with her tone of voice and approach?

In my experience, the worst outcomes in ABA happen not because the goals are wrong but because there is a lack of attunement.

An RBT may have clear instructions. A BCBA may have written a thoughtful plan. But if we forget to meet the client where they are, in moment to moment experience, the work becomes harder for everyone.

Ironically, meeting the client where they are is already central to ABA. We break skills down. We shape behavior gradually. We reinforce small steps toward meaningful change.

But emotional readiness is part of the starting point too.

Before learning happens, regulation has to happen. Many of the children we work with are already managing sensory overwhelm, trauma, or nervous system dysregulation. When a calm adult enters the room, the child’s nervous system can borrow that stability.

That is co-regulation.

In counseling fields, ideas like attunement, co-regulation, unconditional positive regard, and transference are considered foundational. In ABA they are rarely discussed explicitly, yet they shape almost every interaction between an RBT and a client.

I often think there is a lot the ABA world can learn from counseling in terms of relational dynamics. And there is also a lot the counseling world can learn from ABA about the science of how change happens.

Ultimately there is no conflict between the two. If we truly want to help our clients, our work cannot exist in a vacuum.

Of course, I have started to think about attunement and co-regulation in operational terms. I am in the process of creating an online course to break down and discuss what this means for RBT’s and BCBA’s and how we can apply that to our practice. Not as an addition to our goals but as the most important environmental variable to support learning.

Science matters.
Relationships matter.
But attunement is the glue that brings it all together.

Glitter.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about children experiencing trauma.

The first time it really hit me was when I spent time in Tzfat painting bomb shelters. From the outside they were beautiful, I painted butterflies and flowers. They were covered in color, art, and intention. But inside they felt stark and heavy. I remember standing there realizing I couldn’t truly imagine what it would feel like to spend days inside one of those spaces, waiting, listening, living with uncertainty. Especially as a child.

Then December 14 happened in Sydney, Australia. Thankfully my family there was safe, but my young nephew witnessed someone being shot right in front of him. I still don’t know what that does to a person. I don’t know how a child makes sense of something like that, or where those images go once they are seen.

At the time, I was in Israel and offered to run an art therapy group for teenagers from my old school who were there. I thought we might talk about what they were seeing or feeling, about the news, the fear, the uncertainty. But they didn’t want to talk. They wanted to color. They wanted to play with clay. They wanted to laugh and have fun.

And it made perfect sense.

The images were too big. Too overwhelming. What they needed wasn’t discussion; they needed relief. A moment where their nervous systems could step away from fear.

Art therapy became that space. Through creating, they were able to externalize what was happening inside without needing to explain it. Their artwork spoke quietly: figures in pain, symbols of protection, deep connections to the land of Israel. The meaning was there, even without words.

Over the last few months, I’ve continued training in trauma work, particularly ISP, which is an acute trauma response approach that focuses on supporting a dysregulated nervous system in real time using bilateral methods. I’ve also noticed a shift in how I listen to people. When I hear trauma stories now, I find myself listening less to the narrative and more to the body. How are they breathing? Where do they hold tension? How do they contain emotion, or struggle to?

Yesterday, a friend said something that stayed with me. She described trauma like glitter. You can clean it up, but pieces of it remain. It becomes part of you.

I think about children running to bomb shelters. Children learning that a friend’s father was killed simply for being Jewish. I wonder what lives inside their small bodies after experiences like these.

I don’t have answers.

What I do know is that the human heart has an incredible capacity to hold many things at once: grief, fear, joy, play, connection, hope. Even little hearts can hold enormous experiences.

Maybe healing isn’t about erasing what happened. Maybe there is no complete undoing. But there is an ability to carry even the most tragic realities and continue living, connecting, and creating meaning.

And perhaps that capacity, to hold pain and still remain human, is where healing begins.

A lesson in growth and alignment.

I read a post today from a fellow therapist. She admitted feeling jealous that she didn’t have the same financial ease as some of her friends’ husbands, people who seemed to simply show up and have life handed to them.

At first, I noticed a flicker of judgment in myself. And then I realized: it wasn’t about her. It was a mirror reflecting my own yearning and envy. That awareness itself, though tinged with sadness, was insightful.

The sages remind us: “Who is truly lucky? The one who is satisfied with their lot.” This doesn’t mean giving up ambition. It means learning to hold desire and contentment together, to grow without letting longing become a source of suffering.

Chabad Chassidut speaks of bittul, the ability to let go of ego and the need for material outcomes. Sometimes it’s hard to see proper role models of this concept in daily life, as a sense of true humility is often hard to come by. But you can find examples. Sometimes it is indeed the leader of the pack: the one in the room we all look up to. But if you look around the room, often the examples of the most bittul, or the ones from whom you can learn true humbleness, are not the most obvious. It takes insight, observance, and curiosity to see what is not presented to you.

Buddhism speaks of freedom from attachment; peace with what life gives us. It is often clearer to see the people who are working towards this in the types of clothes they wear, their dress, and the life they are living.

Both traditions point to the same truth: life is not only about what we attain, but how we engage with what is.

I am learning that it’s possible to embrace the life I have while still reaching for what I want. To acknowledge envy without letting it control me. To strive without clinging, to yearn without judgment, to grow without fear.

Maybe this is the deeper lesson: that fulfillment doesn’t come from having everything we imagined, but from aligning with the life we are given. Seeing it, honoring it, and moving through it with curiosity, gratitude, and intention.

Scars that heal.

A year after I came out of surgery, I was a mess.

It wasn’t even the diagnosis that was so terrible, or the surgery itself, though for two full years afterward parts of my neck were completely numb. What shook me most was the scar. It seemed to symbolize something much bigger than the procedure.

My body had been cut open. Someone had taken a knife to my neck. Even though I knew it was done to heal me, a part of my mind experienced it as an attack. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of a snake wrapped around my neck, tightening and tightening. Sometimes the image was so strong that I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

It felt as though a hole had been opened not only in my neck, but in my heart.

The doctor who performed the surgery was excellent, and I’m grateful for his skill. But right after the operation he said something that stayed with me: “Your neck was so easy to cut.”

I know he meant it clinically. But in that moment, it made me feel as though my body was just an object — something someone could open and close without thinking twice.

For almost a year afterward, I wrapped my neck in scarves. It was partly physical protection, but also emotional. I didn’t want to see the scar, and I didn’t want others to see it either.

My brother, who unfortunately has experienced a lot of surgery in his life, mostly as a young child, told me something that stayed with me: “No one really understands what you’re going through.” After my first major surgery, I began to understand. I couldn’t imagine being a young child and having to go through what he went through. My heart still hurts for that part of him that had to be resilient and strong and pretend it was all nothing even when it was hurting so painfully. And I am so inspired how he has dealt with it all with such regality and grace.

Over time, my scar has scar faded. Now most people don’t notice it at all. Some days I forget it’s even there, although there is still a faint physical pain, and it has permanently changed the way I exercise.

But the deeper truth is that the experience changed me.

The first few years were chaotic emotionally. There was darkness. Shame. Anger. Frustration. Resentment toward others and toward myself. I had to move through all of it slowly, piece by piece.

Even now there are days when I look at my body and feel sadness. My body changed. A part of me still experiences it as a kind of mutilation. When those feelings come up, I try not to push them away. I try to comfort the part of me that went through something so shocking and overwhelming.

The shock may never completely disappear. But the guilt and shame I once felt about it have started to fade.

Four years later, I can say something I never imagined I would say then: the experience has made me better.

I had to walk through that darkness and find my way toward a more forgiving light. Along the way I had to confront parts of myself I hadn’t noticed before: my vulnerability, my sense of control, my anger at the world, sadness at the loss of time, my fear of being damaged.

And something else has quietly taken their place: compassion.

Since that first surgery, I’ve had a few others. But the trauma of those hasn’t touched the intensity of the first one.

Some days I look in the mirror and the scar almost looks like a goofy little smiley face staring back at me. On those days I place one palm on my neck and one on my belly, and I give comfort to the parts of me that were changed forever.

I may be a little worse for wear.

But I am still me.

And while my scars may not be beautiful, they are a testament to the body’s capacity to survive, adapt, and keep going.

Sensitivity.

One thing I have always known, though I didn’t have words for it growing up, was that events felt like too much. I grew up in a large family as the daughter of a rabbi, surrounded by people, noise, expectations, and constant social energy. The lights, the sounds, the shifting emotions in a room, I felt all of it deeply.

I couldn’t explain it to anyone. I just knew that feelings would rise and panic would come in waves when I had to speak publicly, show up socially, or be “on” for others. From the outside I seemed capable; inside my nervous system felt overwhelmed.

Reading Elaine Aron’s work on Highly Sensitive People was a turning point. It helped me understand me, and the experiences I had had, but was difficult to explain to those around me, and let alone myself. It validated my experience and started to release the shame I had been holding for so long. I began to understand that sensitivity isn’t a flaw, it’s a way of being.

My body needed support.

Discovering somatic therapy changed everything.

When I first heard of somatic experiencing it made sense to my body. I knew this is what I needed. It was a welcome embrace. Because I had spent years trying to force my mind into change and nothing helped. In fact, I was worse off. I had had years of talk therapy, and I had felt I was going in circles. Which, makes total sense. My mind and cognition wasn’t what needed fixing. In fact, I didn’t need fixing at all. .

I started practicing somatic experiencing and going to sessions. And slowly, started noticing the change. Instead of analyzing myself, I learned to listen to my nervous system. Instead of hurrying everything up, I slowed everything down. Grounding exercises, noticing activation and deactivation. I began to notice sensations, shifts in state, and moments of safety. I notices subtle shifts in my body and began making new movements to support boundaries and expression. Somatic therapy, art therapy, play therapy, they taught me that healing isn’t about forcing change; it’s about learning to be with ourselves. The body holds wisdom, even in discomfort.

It’s not a linear process. I keep learning every day. My nervous system has not been ‘fixed’ with more awareness, it is just more knowing and able. I go back and forward. Some days I am fully in my sense of self, and am contained. Others times, I feel the feelings. I notice that there is something calling and something that wants to be heard. I notice the uncomfortability, I notice the yearning, I notice the sadness, I notice the excitement, the joy. And I utilize what I have learnt to accept what is, the disappointments, the stress, the yearning, in a kind and gentle way. As I have grown I have noticed the subtle shifts, the ability to contain and be with more, the ability to hold space for others, and the ability to be more compassionate with myself.

In my work with women and children, I see this again and again: when we learn to notice and support our nervous systems, we build capacity. We learn how to ground, self-soothe, and gently show our bodies that we are safe. It’s not a fix it all. But it allows us to embrace what comes with fuller and open hearts.

There is a way to live in this world that supports sensitive people, not by becoming less sensitive, but by learning how to care for ourselves within it.

If this resonates with you, feel free to reach out.

Why Play therapy?

Children love to play. One of their favorite things to do is explore their world through imagination. A flying dinosaur? Check. A talking train falling from outer space? Check. A hospital where we can explore injury and surgery? Check. Cops and robbers or knights and servants? Check.

Children don’t process experience primarily through conversation. They process through movement, sensation, imagination, creativity, and symbolic play.

It’s fun. And I understand why people sometimes wonder where the therapy is in all of that.

Children are naturally playful. It’s something they excel at. And it’s something parents can absolutely do at home. So what’s the difference in the therapy room? What does the therapist do that a parent can’t?

The truth is that the therapist doesn’t replace the parent. In the play space, the therapist supports parenting and attachment.

But what the therapy space allows is for parent and child to interact in ways that are often different from home.

At home, life is busy. There are schedules, other children, errands, responsibilities, and a lot of moving pieces. Even when parents want to slow down and play, the realities of daily life are always nearby.

In the play therapy space, for a short period of time, both children and parents get to step somewhere else. There is room to use imagination without worrying about what needs to be picked up or where you need to go next. The therapist holds the structure of the space so the parent doesn’t have to do everything themselves.

What is offered is something that is actually quite rare for both child and parent: a place where the child can safely be fully themselves for a while, and a place where the parent doesn’t have to make all the rules. A place where the child can explore fun with their parent without the constant expectations and distractions of everyday life.

If a child wants to throw paint, they can explore that. If they want to bang loudly, crash toys, or act out big feelings through play, that can be expressed. If they want to control the story, the rules, or the environment, they are allowed to try.

The therapy space removes everyday pressures long enough for a child to discover something important:

Who am I when I’m not being corrected, shaped, or expected to perform?

Most of a child’s life requires adaptation, listening to adults, following rules, managing expectations, and fitting into family and school systems. These demands are healthy, but they also require a great deal of emotional effort.

Play therapy creates a container where children can experiment with autonomy. They can test limits safely, express anger or fear or joy, replay experiences symbolically, and begin to make sense of their inner world. The parent can support this process, and when the child is able to relax, themes they are already working through at home begin to emerge naturally in play. The parent becomes the container, and the therapist supports the process.

When children play in therapy, many things are happening at once. They are touching and building, moving and organizing their energy, expressing feelings safely, and telling stories without needing the right words.

Through play, children begin to integrate different parts of themselves: the rule follower and the rule breaker, the confident child and the struggling child, the calm child and the angry one.

When children feel accepted across all of those parts, something important begins to happen. They start to understand that all of them is allowed to exist.

From that foundation, emotional regulation, confidence, flexibility, and resilience begin to grow naturally.

Play therapy doesn’t force change. It creates the conditions where growth can unfold.

And it isn’t a replacement for parenting. It’s a partnership.

Parents provide love, attachment, and structure. Play in therapy provides a specialized space where children can process their experiences and return home a little more understood, a little more regulated, and a little more able to be themselves. It engages the child (and parents) natural desire to use imagination and creativity. And of course, the best thing about it is it’s fun!

A small but big move

My nervous system is changing.

I noticed it when I was in Israel a few months back.

In Jerusalem I was able to move. I noticed the lights reflecting off the windows. The warm glow of the sunset off the Jerusalem stone. I noticed the cultures and languages and dress of people walking by. I noticed the pain, the joy, the hope, the fear, the struggle, the survival. My usual stuck New York self was becoming unstuck: walking, experiencing, noticing.

I was open to experience and experience held me. I volunteered more in 3 months then I had volunteered in my entire stay in the North East. I was able to hold space for the children of Tzfat. I gave and I was given.

Now that I am in South Florida, I am continuing to notice the shift.

I live close to the bay in South Beach, and almost without planning it, I have been connecting with water four or five times a week. Some days I walk to the ocean before work. Other days I sit quietly by the bay and watch the light move across the surface. These moments are simple, but the effects feel profound.

I feel calmer.

I wake earlier without forcing myself.
My thoughts move more slowly.
My body feels less braced.
I am walking everywhere instead of rushing from one obligation to the next.

Over the years, I learned that insight alone does not always create change.

Lately I have been thinking about regulation not as something we think ourselves into, but something our nervous system experiences through safety, rhythm, and environment. What I understand about my body is that it needs lived experiences of safety. Repeated, predictable moments where it can soften its vigilance.

In Jerusalem, I noticed the subtle shift as I worked part time, enjoyed coffee in the morning, and volunteered.

In South Florida, I am continuing to notice the shifts as I have now upped my schedule but create daily and weekly rituals to support mental health: going to the water, enjoying the sunset.

My breath has changed.
It feels deeper. More internal. Less effortful.

I didn’t realize how much activation I was carrying until my system began letting it go.

This morning my siblings sent photos of the New York blizzard. The pictures were fun, with the children playing in the snow, but all I could see was heavy snow, grey skies, people bundled against the cold.

I feel a quiet confirmation inside myself that moving was the right thing for me.

Our environments shape our nervous systems more than we often acknowledge. Light, warmth, movement, proximity to nature, these are not luxuries. They are forms of nervous system support.

I am learning, again, that regulation can emerge not from pushing harder, but from placing ourselves where our bodies feel safe enough to breathe.