Eastwind Psychotherapy

Self-Care Sunday: Sometimes our bodies make the decision for us.

On Friday morning, I cancelled my entire day of clients.

I really didn’t want to. But my respiratory illness had worsened enough that morning that there wasn’t really a decision left to make.

My body had made it for me.

As I lay there feeling pretty miserable, I found myself thinking about the past couple of weeks. They’d been full of work, travel, a wonderful conference, learning, connecting, and lots of things I genuinely enjoyed and felt grateful for.

And it reminded me of something I think many of us forget:

Good things can be exhausting too.

We can feel excited, grateful and inspired while also needing more rest than we’re giving ourselves.

Sometimes the signs are quiet: a little more tired, a little less capacity, needing more quiet, or simply not feeling quite like ourselves.

It’s easy to think, I’ll rest after this week.

Until our bodies make it harder to ignore.

For me, this week was a reminder that self-care isn’t only about what we do once we’re depleted. It’s also about learning to notice the quieter signs along the way.

We don’t have to earn rest by becoming completely depleted first.

Sometimes we can simply listen a little sooner.

I’m still learning this one, too. 🤍

Sometimes self-care looks like rest.
Sometimes it looks like a boundary.
And sometimes, unexpectedly, self-care looks like saying goodbye.

With a very full and admittedly heavy heart, I’m sharing that I’ll soon be leaving The Reflection Centre.

Some chapters are difficult to close, even when you know you’re ready to begin the next one.

The Reflection Centre has been such an important part of my journey as a psychotherapist. It’s where I completed my practicum, where I took my first steps into this new career, and where I’ve had the privilege of growing alongside an incredible community of clinicians and colleagues over the past two years.

I’m deeply grateful for the people who welcomed me, supported me, taught me, challenged me, encouraged me, and trusted me along the way.

And I want to say a particularly heartfelt thank you to Deborah and Victoria. You had faith in me when I was a brand-new student, and then allowed me to learn, practice, stumble, grow, and find my footing. You opened a door that changed the course of my life, and I will always be grateful that you did.

What you built at The Reflection Centre is more than a practice. It is a community, and one that I feel incredibly lucky to have been welcomed into. I’m leaving the Centre, but I’m not leaving that community. It’s one I’ll always cherish, and I hope to remain a part of it in all the ways that matter. 🤍

And most of all, I’m grateful for the clients who allowed me to walk alongside them during some of the most vulnerable and meaningful moments of their lives.

That is a privilege I will never take lightly.

Leaving is bittersweet. There is sadness in saying goodbye to a place and people who have become such an important part of my story. But I’m learning that something can be deeply meaningful and still be something we’re ready to leave.

We can be grateful for what was, sad that it’s ending, and still know that it’s time to move forward.

Maybe that’s a form of self-care too.

Listening when something inside us says, this chapter has given me what I needed. It’s time for the next one. So I’m making room for what’s next with a mixture of excitement, sadness, gratitude, and a whole lot of trust.

I’m looking forward to continuing this work through Eastwind Psychotherapy and to all that lies ahead.But before I turn the page, I want to pause here and simply say:

Thank you.

Thank you, Reflection Centre, for being such an important part of my becoming a therapist. And if you’re somewhere in the middle of an ending yourself, remember that it’s okay to feel the weight of what you’re leaving while still looking forward to what comes next.
Sometimes our hearts hold both.

Today was a pretty special day. ❤️

I actually got to meet and talk with THE Terry Real, someone whose work has had a profound impact on me.

Not just on how I show up in the therapy room and what I bring to my work with couples, parents and individuals, but on how I show up in my own relationships.

His work has challenged me to look at my own patterns, notice when I’m hooked, take responsibility for my part, repair when I’ve caused hurt, and stay connected even when things get hard.

And honestly… I’m still a work in progress.

But that’s what I love about relational work. It isn’t about becoming perfect at relationships. It’s about becoming more aware, more accountable and more willing to move toward each other.

In a world that feels increasingly disconnected and divided, I think this work matters more than ever.

Feeling pretty grateful today to be learning from someone whose work has changed both the therapist I am and the person I am.

Connection EastwindPsychotherapy

Day 1 of the RLT in Montreal … and my brain has officially left the building. 🤯🧠

SO much learning. So many “OMG … YES!” moments. So much to process.

I love being a therapist who is still willing to sit in the student seat, especially when the learning makes me think differently about relationships, attachment, love and how we show up for the people who matter most.

Exhausted. Inspired. Brain = FULL. ❤️

And that was only Day 1. 😳

Montreal

SELF-CARE SUNDAY 🤍

Parents, two things can be true.

There’s something I wish more parents knew when their adult children begin talking about painful experiences from childhood:

Acknowledging their pain doesn’t mean you have to agree that you were a bad parent.

I know this not only from my work as a psychotherapist, but from my own experience.

When I was about two and a half or three, I spent several days in a hospital about an hour away from my parents. I was sick, scared, and alone in a crib surrounded by strangers. My parents did the right thing. I needed medical care. They made the best decision they could with the circumstances and information they had. They loved me.

And yet, that little girl experienced those days as abandonment. That experience stayed with me and contributed to a significant fear of being alone and of feeling abandoned as I grew up.

My parents did the right thing. And my experience was still painful.

Both can be true.

Our children don’t experience our intentions. They experience what happens to them through their own developing minds, needs, temperament, and circumstances. We can’t control every meaning they make of what happens to them. But we can remain open to hearing about it. We can listen without immediately defending ourselves. We can be curious when their memory differs from ours. We can validate their feelings without necessarily agreeing with every interpretation.

And sometimes we can say:

“I never meant for you to feel that way. But I can hear that you did. Tell me more.”

That’s not an admission that we failed as parents. It’s an invitation to understand. And sometimes, understanding creates an opportunity for repair.

So if you’re a parent carrying guilt about things you wish you’d done differently, I hope you can offer yourself some compassion.

And if your child is carrying hurt, I hope you can make room for that, too.

You don’t have to be a bad parent to have a child who experienced pain.

And your child’s pain doesn’t have to erase the love, care, and good intentions that were also there.

Both can be true. 🤍

Self-Care Sunday: Forgiving the younger you

Sometimes the hardest person to have compassion for is the person we used to be.

This week, I’ve been sitting with a theme that has come up again and again in my therapy room. People recognizing that some of the ways they’ve been moving through the world — the ways they’ve protected themselves, reacted, defended, controlled, withdrawn, accommodated, pushed people away or held on too tightly — weren’t actually coming from the wise adult self they thought was in charge. Sometimes a younger part of us has taken the wheel.

A part that learned, a long time ago, that this was how you stayed safe.
How you got love.
How you avoided rejection.
How you kept control.
How you survived.

And sometimes those strategies worked. Until they didn’t.

Looking back with the awareness we have now can be painful. We may see the ways those protective parts affected our relationships. Our choices. Other people. The trajectory of our lives.

There can be grief in that. And regret. But there can also be something else:

Compassion.

Not the kind that says, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The kind that says, “I understand why you did what you did. And I can see now that we need to do things differently.”

That takes an enormous amount of courage. Because it asks us to hold two truths at the same time:

I was doing the best I could with what I knew then.

And:

Some of what I did still caused harm, and I want to take responsibility for that.

There is no shame in learning that a protective part of you has been running the show. There is humility in recognizing it. There is strength in taking responsibility for what happened while refusing to hate the person who was trying so hard to protect you. And there is something incredibly brave about deciding:

I don’t want to keep doing this.

Sometimes self-care is turning toward the younger version of yourself with tenderness and saying:

I see why you did that.
Thank you for trying to protect me.
You don’t have to do it this way anymore.
I’ve got it from here.

And then doing the work to make that true.

THIS!!!!

Sounds so simple, yet is a skill many adults are still learning … keep rewiring that beautiful brain!! 🧠

Consider this your official invitation to take what you need.

Therapy doesn’t always look like deep conversations and serious reflection.

Sometimes it looks like a tissue.
Sometimes it’s a grounding stone.
Sometimes it’s writing something down so you don’t forget it.
Sometimes it’s a ridiculous sticker because… well, you deserve a ridiculous sticker.

Everything on my therapy table is there for you to use, explore, take with you, or completely ignore.

There’s no right way to “do” therapy. We’ll figure out what’s useful for you along the way.

And yes — the chocolate is fair game.

What would you reach for first?

Men don’t need self-care.

Says who?

Maybe you’ve never thought of what you do as “self-care.” Maybe you call it getting on with it. Keeping busy. Solving the problem. Working harder. Going for a drive. Saying “I’m fine.” And honestly, some of those things might genuinely help. But there’s a difference between coping and caring for yourself.

Research consistently finds that men are less likely than women to seek preventive health care and mental health support. And traditional expectations around masculinity- being self-reliant, emotionally controlled, tough, and able to handle things on your own — can make asking for help feel uncomfortable or even unnecessary. But taking care of yourself doesn’t make you less strong.

It might look like:

Going to the doctor instead of waiting until something is really wrong.

Talking to someone when things are getting heavy.

Taking a day off.

Getting enough sleep.

Making time for the people you love.

Doing something you enjoy without needing it to be productive.

Or simply admitting, “I’m not actually doing that great.”

You don’t have to start journaling.

You don’t need a gratitude practice.

And it’s okay if you don’t suddenly develop an interest in scented candles. 😉

Self-care isn’t a personality transplant. It’s paying attention to yourself enough to notice when something isn’t working and doing something about it. So, if you’re a guy reading this:

You don’t have to need less.
You just have to give yourself permission to notice what you need.

And if you’re a woman who loves a man who insists he “doesn’t need self-care”… Maybe don’t send him this post with “SEE?!” attached. Maybe just remember that a lot of men were taught that being strong means being the one who doesn’t need anything.

They can learn something different. Sometimes, the most loving thing we can do is make it a little safer for the people we love to admit, “I need some help with this.”

I discovered this beautiful passage over five years ago while reading Louise Erdrich’s The Painted Drum.

At the time, I was still hurting from a failed relationship and wondering if I even wanted to bother opening my heart again. I remember sitting there reading these words and suddenly feeling tears rolling down my cheeks:

“You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart.”

Five years later, these words still stay with me. Maybe because I know something now that I didn’t know then: Protecting yourself from being hurt again can also mean protecting yourself from being deeply loved, connected and alive.

I hear versions of this in my work with clients after heartbreak all the time.

“I don’t think I can ever trust someone again.”

“I’m never going to let myself be that vulnerable again.”

“I’m better off on my own.”

And I get it. When someone has hurt us deeply, being alone can feel safer. Our nervous system learns to protect us. We become more cautious. We scan for the next disappointment. We keep one foot out the door.

But healing isn’t about becoming so self-sufficient that nobody can ever hurt us again. It’s about learning that I can love someone deeply and still belong to myself.

I can have boundaries without building walls.

I can be vulnerable without abandoning myself.

I can experience heartbreak without deciding that love itself was the mistake.

Because the truth is, life will break our hearts.

Relationships end.
People leave.
People disappoint us.
We lose people we love.
Sometimes life simply doesn’t turn out the way we thought it would.

And still, there are apples falling all around us.

There is laughter.
There is friendship.
There is beauty.
There are unexpected beginnings.
There are moments of sweetness we couldn’t have imagined while we were sitting in the middle of our grief.

So perhaps self-care isn’t always about protecting ourselves from pain. Maybe sometimes it’s about making sure our fear of pain doesn’t keep us from tasting the sweetness that’s still here.

As many apples as we can.