Life with a toddler is a bit like living with a mini stunt double—except the stunts are unscripted, usually messy, and often hilarious. Now that Amelia is almost fully into toddlerhood, I find myself laughing more than I ever expected. And not just polite chuckles—those full-belly laughs that catch you off guard.
One of the moments that sums up our days perfectly is this little routine Amelia has started: she climbs onto my knee, plants a kiss on my cheek, gives me the warmest cuddle—and then, without any warning, leans all the way back and does a full backwards roll off my knees. The first time she did it, my heart skipped a beat. Now, it’s become part of our daily entertainment. I still try to catch her, of course, but she knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s her version of trust and thrill-seeking rolled into one, and I can’t help but laugh every single time.
Watching her in this stage—on the move, exploring boundaries, and bursting with personality—reminds me that parenting is never just one thing. It’s part exhausting, part exhilarating, and part comedy sketch show. And if you’ve got a toddler of your own, you probably know exactly what I mean.
There’s something magical about this phase. Yes, it’s noisy. Yes, it’s chaotic. But there’s also so much joy in watching your child’s character emerge in the most unexpected ways. Amelia is cheeky, affectionate, determined, and bold—and her backwards-roll-off-the-knee move captures it all in one wild swoop.
So, to the parents out there navigating life with little daredevils: may your days be filled with kisses, cuddles, and a whole lot of laughter. Because even in the madness, there’s so much magic.
Call to Action:
If this gave you a laugh or reminded you of your own toddler’s antics, I’d love to hear about it! Comment below with the funniest thing your little one does—or did when they were tiny. Don’t forget to like and subscribe for more stories from the heart of parenting. We’re in this together!
If you’d asked me from the age of three until I was 18 what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would’ve said a nurse. Every single time.
That might sound unusual for someone so young to be so sure, but for me, it made perfect sense. I was born prematurely, at just 28 weeks and five days, in a time when neonatal care was still in its early stages. I spent so much of my childhood in and out of hospital that it became a second home. It wasn’t just the place I survived—it was the place where I learned compassion, resilience, and the power of care.
The nurses weren’t just medical professionals—they were my family’s support system. They held my mum through moments of deep fear and uncertainty, and those acts of kindness shaped my understanding of what it means to show up for someone. That’s where the seed was planted—I didn’t just want to get better. I wanted to give back.
That said, there’s one moment my mum told me about that’s never left either of us. After my twin brother, Nicholas, passed away, a nurse said something so cold that it’s stayed with my family ever since. She told my mum, “Don’t think of him as a baby. Think of him as body parts gone wrong.”
My mum never got to see Nicholas. Not even once.
And when you’re grieving, those moments matter. Words matter. That lack of compassion from one person had a lasting impact—but it also highlighted just how important the right support is. Because the other nurses? The ones in neonatal who helped care for me—they were the ones who helped my mum through a grief that’s never really gone away. They held her heart as much as they held mine.
Fast forward to years later, when my own daughter, Amelia, was born prematurely. Suddenly, everything came full circle.
There’s one moment that still brings me to tears when I think about it. Amelia had just been born, and one of the neonatal doctors who helped deliver her on the Wednesday—Magali—had her days off on Thursday and Friday. When she came back in on the Saturday and listened to the handover, she noticed Amelia’s name wasn’t mentioned. The first thing she said was, “Bed nine—what happened? What happened to the baby with the umbilical cysts?”
They told her, “Oh, she’s moved into Room One,” because Amelia was doing so well. Without skipping a beat, Magali said, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and ran.
She came straight to see us. I was there, and we hugged—it wasn’t just a professional moment, it was human. We both had a little cry. I’ve never spoken about that moment before, but it meant the world to me. She’s actually in one of the birth photos, just before Amelia was wheeled off.
In fact, she’s in several of the pictures. There’s one photo that we call the “Lion King moment”—where Amelia is being lifted up in the theatre, and you can see the weight of it all on everyone’s faces. The doctors and nurses look absolutely petrified of the outcome. And then, there’s the next photo—where you can see the sheer relief in their expressions as Amelia lets out her very first cry. It was overwhelming. Raw. Real. And Magali was right there in both moments, holding space, holding hope, and holding us in the most human way possible.
That desire to help has always been part of who I am. At one point, I wanted to be a beauty therapist—still helping people, but in a more holistic way. Then, during my time working on a ship (which gave me a huge boost in confidence), I decided to pursue my dream of becoming a podiatrist. I achieved it, and I’m proud of that.
But like so many of us, the pandemic shifted everything.
Now, my dream has evolved again. My purpose is to help other parents—especially those with premature babies and those navigating life as neurodiverse families—not feel alone.
Because I know what it’s like to feel isolated. I know what it’s like to sit in the NICU, staring at monitors, hoping, waiting, aching. And I know how powerful it is when someone truly sees you in that moment and says, “You’re not alone.”
Today, I’m living my dream—not the one I envisioned as a child, but one that feels even more important. Through my blogs, books, and podcast, I’m creating a space where parents can find empathy, solidarity, and strength. Because when we’re connected, we are stronger.
Thank you for being part of this journey with me.
If you resonated with this post, please like, share and subscribe to my blog.
There’s something about becoming a mum that already pushes you to the edge of exhaustion. But throw in a disability, a feisty toddler, and the long-lasting impact of sepsis, and you’ve got a completely different mountain to climb.
This isn’t the life I imagined. I thought I’d be the mum who could run around the park for hours, who could carry my child when she was tired, who could manage everything without asking for help. But the truth? I’m not the same person I was before sepsis. And I’ve had to grieve that version of me.
What Even Is Post-Sepsis Syndrome?
The thing is, most people have never even heard of Post-Sepsis Syndrome. But nearly everyone has heard of Long Covid. And here’s something not many people realise — Covid can actually cause sepsis, just like many other infections can.
So while Long Covid has been talked about widely, and rightly so, it’s also brought much-needed awareness to the longer-term impacts of infection. That means people are finally starting to understand what post-sepsis life can look like — the fatigue, the pain, the memory issues, the emotional aftermath.
It’s one of the few positives to come out of the pandemic: more people are talking about the long-term impacts of infection, and that includes those of us living with Post-Sepsis Syndrome.
The Battle You Don’t See
For me, that battle includes ongoing fatigue, joint pain, brain fog, and moments of anxiety that hit out of nowhere. Add in my existing hypermobility and dysautonomia, and everyday life — especially parenting — becomes overwhelming at times.
Keeping up with my toddler, Amelia, is a challenge I never quite feel prepared for. She’s full of life and energy, and while I wouldn’t change that for the world, there are days when my body just can’t match hers. The guilt that comes with that is heavy.
I Had to Swallow My Pride
There was a moment — maybe it was the third time I cried trying to carry Amelia up the stairs — that I realised I couldn’t do this alone. I needed help. Not because I’m weak or not trying hard enough, but because I was burning out trying to do it all.
Swallowing my pride wasn’t easy. As someone who’s always fought to prove I could survive, admitting I needed help felt like failure. But it wasn’t. It was strength. Real strength.
Asking for help doesn’t mean I’m failing — it means I’m choosing to show up for my daughter in the ways that matter most.
What I Wish People Understood
I wish people knew that disability doesn’t always look like a wheelchair or a walking stick. Some days I can walk just fine. Other days I struggle to even get out of bed. That doesn’t make my condition any less valid.
I wish people knew that even when I’m smiling at a baby group, I might be masking pain, fatigue, or overwhelm. And I wish people didn’t say, “But you don’t look disabled,” as if it’s a compliment. What I need isn’t pity or praise — it’s understanding, compassion, and practical support.
You Are Not Alone
If you’re reading this and you’re a disabled parent, or you’re navigating the long-term effects of illness or infection — please know this: you are not alone.
It’s OK to need help.
It’s OK to feel like you’re not coping.
It’s OK to mourn the parent you thought you’d be.
But you are still enough.
Your child doesn’t need perfection — they need you. Just as you are. In your messy, beautiful, strong, and vulnerable self.
If this resonated with you, please like and subscribe to my blog for more honest reflections from the trenches of parenting, disability, and surviving the tough stuff.
Call to Action:
Are you a disabled parent, living with a long-term condition, or recovering from sepsis or Long Covid? I’d love to hear your story. Let’s build a community that lifts each other up. Share your experiences in the comments or tag someone who needs to read this.
I was born in the early ’80s, a time when if you wanted to research something—anything at all—you had to physically go to a library. Not just walk in and start searching, either. You had to search before you could even begin to search. I’m talking about flipping through index cards, navigating complex filing systems, and hoping the book you needed was actually on the shelf. If it wasn’t, you’d either wait weeks for it to be ordered or figure out another way entirely.
Fast forward to now, and the way we access information has completely transformed. We literally carry the internet in our pockets. Our phones have become mini-computers—and for someone like me, who’s dyslexic and has suspected ADHD and autism, that’s life-changing.
I no longer need to rely on pen and paper or a desktop computer to capture a fleeting thought. If I get an idea in the middle of the night, I can speak it into my phone using voice notes, something I do regularly when creating blogs. That, combined with the magic of spellcheck, means I can write without being held back by spelling challenges. It’s empowering.
I still remember being in my third year at university, working on my dissertation. Within three weeks, I had written more than I ever imagined possible. Why? Because I was able to voice my ideas, jot them quickly into notes, and then expand on them. And now, with tools like Canva and AI on my phone, I can create visuals, schedule content, design eBooks, and even collaborate with like-minded people at the tap of a button.
Technology hasn’t just helped me manage my business and blog—it’s helped me connect. I’ve found communities of parents and professionals who care deeply about the same things I do: supporting families through prematurity and neurodiversity. I can target the right people through SEO, use hashtags that help me reach new audiences, and share educational resources that truly matter.
But while all of this is powerful and freeing, it comes with a level of responsibility.
As part of the “OG” generation of internet users, I feel it’s my job to teach my daughter how to use it safely. To show her that while technology is a brilliant tool, it needs to be used with care, mindfulness, and intention.
We are living in a time where information is instant, but empathy, connection, and purpose should never be lost in the noise.
So here’s to all of us who remember dial-up and floppy disks—but now use AI, Canva, and hashtags to drive change. Technology has given me freedom. But it’s also reminded me of the importance of passing on digital wisdom to the next generation.
If this blog resonated with you, please like, share, and subscribe to ‘The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey.’ Let’s keep learning, growing, and supporting each other—one tap at a time.
As someone who has neurodiversities, I never really fit in when I was younger. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I spent so much energy trying to be someone I wasn’t—trying to keep up, copy others, stay quiet when I needed help, and not draw attention to my differences. I became a people pleaser without even knowing what that really meant. It felt safer that way. If I could make others happy, maybe they’d accept me. Maybe I’d feel like I belonged.
And truthfully, I’m still a people pleaser to some degree. But something shifted in me during the pandemic. Like many others, I found myself suddenly removed from all the social expectations, the routines, the constant performing. That strange, unsettling pause gave me something unexpected—space. Time to breathe. Time to reflect. And most of all, time to understand myself a little better without needing to ‘mask’.
Rediscovering Myself Without the Mask
The stillness of lockdown made it easier to notice how tired I’d become from trying to be ‘normal’. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to fit in—I just had to be. That’s when I started doing the real work: looking at who I actually was, what I needed, and most importantly, where my boundaries were (or weren’t).
Boundaries are something I’d always struggled with. I was the person who said yes when I wanted to say no. The one who overcommitted, overgave, and felt burnt out regularly—then blamed myself when I hit a wall. But learning about boundaries—what they are, how they work, and why they matter—was like finding a secret key to emotional safety and wellbeing.
Why Boundaries Matter—For Adults and Children Alike
I began practising saying ‘no’—in both my personal life and in business. It wasn’t easy. I worried people would think I was rude or unkind. But over time, something amazing happened. I felt stronger. More in control. Less resentful. More… me.
Now, one of my biggest focuses is teaching my daughter about boundaries too. She’s still little, but I want her to grow up knowing that it’s okay to say no. That her voice matters. That if something makes her uncomfortable, she doesn’t have to just smile and go along with it.
Because the truth is, when our boundaries are constantly crossed—especially if we don’t know how to express them—it can deeply impact our mental health. It can make us doubt ourselves, hold back from opportunities, and stop us from reaching our full potential—both personally and professionally.
Boundaries Are a Form of Self-Respect
Boundaries aren’t about pushing people away. They’re about honouring yourself—and teaching others how to treat you. They are a form of self-respect, and a skill I wish I had learnt earlier in life.
I’m still learning. Still growing. Still figuring out what boundaries look like in different parts of my life. But I’m proud of how far I’ve come, and I’m even more proud to be raising a daughter who, I hope, will feel safe, confident, and supported enough to set her own boundaries too.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong, or you’re always giving but rarely receiving, I want you to know you’re not alone. It’s never too late to start creating healthy boundaries. It might feel uncomfortable at first—but on the other side of discomfort is freedom, clarity, and peace.
If this blog resonated with you, please like, share, and subscribe to support more content like this. Let’s keep the conversation going—comment below with your experience of boundaries and how you’re teaching them to your children.
References & Resources
• Dr. Nicole LePera (The Holistic Psychologist) – Instagram
• Brene Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection
• “Neurodivergent Experiences with Masking and People-Pleasing” – Neurodiversity Resource Hub UK
• NHS: Mental Health and Setting Boundaries – NHS Website
How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?
There’s something I’ve always felt deeply – I can pick up on people’s vibes, energy, feelings, before they even say a word. I used to think this was just intuition. But as I’ve explored more about ADHD and autism, I’ve come to realise that this ability to sense others’ emotions – this deep, sometimes overwhelming empathy – might actually be part of my neurodivergent brain. And it’s also shaped by something else: the experience of being bullied when I was younger.
Growing up, I didn’t quite fit in. I was different, and other kids picked up on that. I was hard of hearing, I didn’t learn to read until I was 13, and I always seemed to be on the outside looking in. That made me a target. I can still remember how it felt to walk into a room and instantly sense whether I was welcome or not. My whole body would respond before a word was even spoken – my gut, my chest, my nerves. It’s like I became wired to scan every space for safety or danger. Hyper-awareness became a survival mechanism.
But what started as a way to protect myself has turned into something else entirely. It’s one of the reasons why people say I have so much empathy. I can feel what others are feeling. I can see when someone is struggling – even if they’re masking it well. I think that’s because I know what it’s like to feel small, overlooked, or misunderstood.
When I started learning more about ADHD and autism, it felt like a lightbulb moment. I saw myself in so many of the traits – especially emotional sensitivity and hyper-empathy. For a long time, people thought ADHD meant being ‘hyper’ or unable to focus. But it’s so much more than that. Many of us with ADHD feel things incredibly deeply. The same goes for autism – we’re often tuned in to emotions and body language in ways that others might not notice. It can be exhausting, yes. But it’s also a strength.
Empathy is one of the reasons I do the work I do now. I want other parents – especially those who are neurodiverse or raising neurodiverse children – to feel seen, heard and supported. I don’t want anyone to feel the isolation or fear I once felt. Whether you’re navigating a NICU stay, dealing with birth trauma, or simply trying to make sense of your child’s behaviour, I want you to know that someone gets it.
Empathy isn’t just a buzzword. For people like us, it’s how we live. It’s how we survive. And if you’ve ever felt too much, or been told you’re “too sensitive,” I want you to know that your sensitivity might just be your superpower.
Call to Action:
If this blog post resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment, share your story, or connect with me on social media. And don’t forget to like, subscribe, and follow The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey for more blogs on neurodiversity, parenting, and living life with empathy at the centre.
References:
• Kutscher, M. L., Attwood, T., & Wolff, R. (2014). The ADHD Autism Connection: A Step toward More Accurate Diagnoses and Effective Treatment. Future Horizons.
• Baron-Cohen, S. (2020). The Pattern Seekers: A New Theory of Human Invention. Allen Lane.
• Brown, T. E. (2005). Attention Deficit Disorder: The Unfocused Mind in Children and Adults. Yale University Press.
Today’s daily blog prompt asked, “What is your favourite weather?” But I’m going to take it a step further and pair it with my favourite season—because for me, the two are very much connected.
I’ve always been someone who struggles with extreme heat. Due to my health, hot weather can cause me to feel dizzy or even pass out. So summer is definitely not my favourite. I don’t mind warmth—but only if it’s paired with a lovely light breeze. That’s why spring tops my list.
There’s something so comforting about the mild temperatures, the soft sunlight, and the blossoms beginning to bloom. The whole world feels like it’s slowly waking up. I find it soothing—and now that Amelia is a toddler, I get to see it through her eyes, too. She’s learning and discovering so much, and spring gives us the perfect setting to explore together. From spotting bees on flowers to watching the trees bloom, it’s just magical.
But I must admit, autumn (or fall, depending where you’re from) gives spring a run for its money. There’s something about the crisp air, cooler temperatures, and those rich golden colours that blanket the trees that fills me with joy. Autumn feels like a warm hug and a soft exhale after a busy summer.
Just the other day, we had a beautifully mild day—10 degrees Celsius—so we grabbed the opportunity to go to the park. It was such a joy to let Amelia run around, feel the breeze on our faces, and just be. These are the days I treasure the most. When the weather is like this, it’s so much easier to get outside, stretch our legs, and take in the beauty of nature.
These moments have become even more meaningful to me as a parent. Watching my child grow up surrounded by the beauty of changing seasons is such a gift. It’s a reminder to slow down, breathe, and enjoy the little things—like a walk in the park on a breezy spring day or collecting crunchy leaves in autumn.
What’s your favourite weather or season? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
Let’s connect:
If you enjoyed this post, please like, share, and subscribe to my blog The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey. I write daily posts designed to support parents—especially those navigating life with neurodivergence or raising children with additional needs.
By Laura Johnstone | The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey
Yesterday was one of those days that reminded me how far we still have to go when it comes to accessibility and understanding what it means to parent with a disability.
As a disabled mum with mobility challenges, I’ve had to find ways to make everyday life work. Right now, my daughter’s buggy isn’t just a way to carry her around—it’s my walking aid. I dread the day Amelia no longer needs it, because I’ll have to go back to using crutches again. And while I’ll do what I need to do, the truth is—mobility aids aren’t the challenge. The world around us is.
Yesterday, I had an appointment at the Job Centre in Worthing as part of my Universal Credit requirements. I gave myself plenty of time, took the train, and thought I had everything covered. But when I arrived at Worthing station, the lift was out of order. No warning. No announcements. Just a load of tape and two traffic cones.
Let’s be honest—stairs for one person and a baby in a buggy is already hard. Add mobility issues into the mix, and it becomes nearly impossible.
For me, stairs are tricky. I tried to get the attention of the station staff, which took 20 minutes. When I finally got the guards attention, I explained my situation, and his response was:
“You’ll have to get the train to Lancing, and then come back to Worthing.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. I was already struggling, already managing pain, fatigue, a buggy, and a toddler. Now I was being asked to delay my journey, get on another train, and hope someone might help me the second time around.
The panic set in. I started shaking. I couldn’t get my breath. I could see that Amelia was getting upset watching me panic, and I couldn’t stop it. I was stuck in a situation I didn’t create, without any accessible support.
That’s when two police officers saw me and stepped in. They helped me calm down and made sure I got the help I needed, as in got Amelia and the buggy to the other platform while I took my time on the stairs. I was so grateful to them in that moment—it felt like someone actually saw me.
Eventually, I made it to my appointment on time. But I was dizzy, disoriented, and completely flustered. And then, right there in the Job Centre, I collapsed.
A kind security guard caught me—literally. He didn’t make me feel embarrassed or like a burden. He helped. Simple as that. And honestly, in a world that often doesn’t consider disabled mums at all, that act of kindness meant everything.
Of course, the stress didn’t end there. My digestive issues flared up for the rest of the day, like they always do when my nervous system is overwhelmed. But I got through it. And today, I reminded myself—it’s a new day.
Disabled Parents Exist. We Matter. And We Deserve Better.
This story isn’t about one broken lift. It’s about a broken system. Public transport should be accessible. Staff should be trained. And no disabled parent should be told to travel backwards to move forwards.
We live in a world that’s designed with “ability” in mind—where buggies, mobility aids, neurodivergence, and invisible illnesses are treated like afterthoughts. But we aren’t rare. We are here. And we are raising the next generation.
I’m not sharing this for pity—I’m sharing it for change. Because this isn’t just about me. It’s about every disabled mum trying to show up for their child in a world that doesn’t show up for them.
So next time you see a buggy, remember—it might not just be for the child. It might be the lifeline that helps a mum keep moving.
If this story resonates with you, I’d love you to like, share, and subscribe. Let’s keep raising awareness, one voice at a time. Together, we can push for a more inclusive world—for ourselves and for our children.
When I look back at my time in school, I remember how hard it often felt to keep up. Being neurodivergent in a world that didn’t always understand felt like constantly running a race with your shoelaces tied together. But despite all that, there were some incredible teachers who made a lasting impact—who believed in me, even when I found it hard to believe in myself.
The first teacher who really stood out for me was Mrs Jones, my special needs teacher in primary school. She had known my dad since they were children, and I suppose in many ways that connection made me feel a little safer. In Year 6, our class went on a trip to Plas Glynllifon in Llandwrog to immerse ourselves in the Welsh language. It was meant to be a time of fun, learning, and independence—but I ended up getting an ear infection.
What could’ve been a lonely, uncomfortable experience turned into something quite different. Mrs Jones stayed with me overnight to keep an eye on me. The next morning, she’d arranged an appointment with a local doctor. I didn’t speak Welsh, and being in a predominantly Welsh-speaking area could’ve made things complicated—but she stepped in and advocated for me. She made sure I was seen, heard, and understood. That kind of care goes beyond teaching. That’s heart. That’s someone who sees you.
Later that day, my dad—who happened to be working near Bangor—picked me up. But I’ve never forgotten how she showed up for me when I needed someone most. She didn’t have to go to that extent, but she did.
Then came secondary school, and again, I had the support of some wonderful special needs teachers. They helped me navigate a system that wasn’t always built with children like me in mind. But it was my RE teacher who lit the spark in me. I don’t even know if she ever realised the impact she had—but she made me believe in myself.
She treated me with kindness, respect, and dignity, even on the days I struggled. Her lessons weren’t just about religion—they were about compassion, morality, and learning to think critically about the world around us. And because she believed in me, I slowly began to believe in myself too.
I hope she’s well. I still think of her now and again, especially when I see children who need just one adult to say, “I see you. I believe in you.”
To all the teachers out there supporting neurodivergent children, to the ones going the extra mile for the child who feels lost or left behind—thank you. You’re not just teaching. You’re changing lives.
Call to Action:
Did you have a teacher who changed your life? I’d love to hear about them. Leave a comment below, and don’t forget to like and subscribe to follow more stories that honour the unsung heroes in our parenting and educational journeys.
References and Further Reading:
• Plas Glynllifon – a historic estate in Llandwrog, Gwynedd, used for educational trips and immersive Welsh learning experiences.
• SEN Support in the UK – understanding the role of special educational needs teachers in primary and secondary education.
Every morning, before I even get out of bed, I do two things: I say three things I’m grateful for, and I speak a few affirmations out loud.
It’s become a habit I lean into, especially on the tougher days—the days when sleep was short, my to-do list feels long, and parenting feels more like surviving than thriving. But this simple routine grounds me. It reminds me of what really matters. And it’s something I now try to pass on to my daughter, in her own sweet and slightly chaotic toddler way.
Why I Start with Gratitude and Affirmations
As a parent who’s walked through the NICU, birth trauma, and the added complexities of neurodiversity, I know just how crucial it is to take care of my mental health. Gratitude helps me re-centre and focus on what’s going right, even if it’s something small—a warm cuppa, a deep breath, or a moment of stillness.
Affirmations help me rewrite the story I sometimes tell myself. Growing up with undiagnosed dyslexia, suspected ADHD, and autism, I often felt like I wasn’t good enough or clever enough. But I’ve learned to speak to myself with kindness. Now I say things like:
• “I am enough just as I am.”
• “I’m allowed to go slow.”
• “I can do hard things.”
This shift in how I speak to myself has been life-changing. And I want that same emotional strength for my daughter too.
The Power of Modelling Emotional Wellbeing
One of the most beautiful parts of parenting is seeing the impact of the tiny seeds we plant. Just the other day, during a walk, my daughter stopped dead in her tracks, walked over to a big tree, and gave it a hug.
She didn’t say anything—she just looked up, smiled, and wrapped her arms around the trunk. I laughed out loud, but honestly, I was deeply moved.
It made me realise that she’s starting to notice the good in the world around her. Whether she knew it or not, in that moment, she was practising mindfulness. She was present, connected, and showing affection to something that made her feel safe or happy. What a beautiful reminder of what really matters.
Teaching Gratitude to Our Children
Gratitude and affirmations aren’t just trendy habits for adults—they’re tools our children can learn too. Especially in families like ours, where neurodiversity is part of the picture, emotional regulation and positive self-talk are foundational.
Here are a few gentle ways to bring it into your day:
• Gratitude chats at breakfast or bedtime: Ask your child what their favourite part of the day was.
• Create a ‘thankful jar’: Let your child draw or scribble what they’re thankful for and pop it in the jar.
• Mirror affirmations: Say things like “I am kind,” or “I am brave” together while looking in the mirror.
• Celebrate nature moments: Like hugging a tree! Point out flowers, the breeze, the sunshine—anything that sparks a little wonder.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real.
For Parents Who Are Also Neurodivergent
If, like me, you’re neurodivergent, these routines might take time to embed—but that’s okay. The magic is in the trying. Whether you journal, speak aloud, use voice notes, or just think about it while brushing your teeth, your way is the right way.
Even if your morning is hectic and nothing goes to plan, taking just ten seconds to say, “Today I will be gentle with myself,” is enough.
Let’s keep showing our children that their thoughts matter. That their feelings are valid. That being kind to yourself is just as important as being kind to others.
If a tiny toddler can hug a tree just because it feels good—imagine what we could all do with a little more gratitude and joy in our daily lives.
What about you?
Do you practise gratitude or affirmations with your children—or with yourself? I’d love to hear how it’s helped or how you’ve made it your own.
If you found this helpful, please like, share, and subscribe to the blog. Let’s grow a community where positive parenting and emotional wellbeing are part of everyday life.
Together, we grow.
References:
• Emmons, R. A., & McCullough, M. E. (2003). Counting blessings versus burdens: An experimental investigation of gratitude and subjective well-being in daily life. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 84(2), 377–389.
• Seligman, M. E. P. (2006). Learned Optimism: How to Change Your Mind and Your Life.
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