I haven’t written in over a month. I’ve been talking with many people, playing with children, listening to streams, exploring work, and trying to listen carefully to what comes next.

The kids are all in school! Isn’t that wild? As Labor Day approaches...so many memories. So many canyons. Such heartfelt stories. All 7 Stones are buried. Zippy is alive and well in Bone Canyon. The echoes of childhood bounce off those walls and beside the steps of young adults.

I am happy. I have so thoroughly enjoyed the last ten years of teaching, learning, writing, making mistakes, and figuring out how to course-correct. What I learned in that process, what I received - it’s priceless. I have been in no rush to determine what’s next.

Next week, I’ll share more about where I’m headed—as a writer, a teacher, a community member, and simply as a person trying to choose a life of integrity.

I’m writing today because I don’t want to rush that. I want to take the time to speak clearly, choose thoughtfully, and mean what I say.

With profound respect,

and gratitude,

Joe

It’s a trivial detail. Maybe. But after answering her final email, I picked up my cup of tea (an earthy, fermented pu-ehr) and heard myself say out loud to the electric blue of dawn just then climbing over the mountains: the somatic language of teaching and learning. I glared.

I don’t think I was ready to understand this until now. What I mean is the body sensations, postures, and movements that coincide with learning and growth. In other words, school.

Do you recall any familiar feelings, physical sensations, or repetitive behaviors that you felt during your school years? I can instantly identify quite a few: the bouncing knees, the various ways my teeth and tongue would rest or clench in my mouth, the convoluted ways I would hold a pencil in order to feel tension in my fingers. The way I would push the palm of my hand against the edge of the chair. I could go on and on.

The somatic language of teaching and learning.

It has been helpful to me to discover the language of neurodivergence. I have not written about it much, but my partner is an expert in the field and has helped me embrace the description I’ve always had of myself as ‘on the spectrum but not diagnoseable.’ She considers me a high-functioning autistic and herself an AuDHD, a blend of autism with ADHD which, to be honest, is rather attractive to me.

Because we’re weird. We make noises. We move our bodies in silly and fun ways. Our relationship has been very liberating to both of us, because rather than constrain these lifelong patterns we embrace them in each other. We love them in one another, freeing up space to love these things in ourselves.

So much has been written on the topic of neurodivergence and all the goofy things people like us do, so it’s not my intention to delve into that. For many people in that community, and I now consider myself one of them, it’s relevant and plain as day. For others it’s over-applied pop-psychology. I sincerely respect both views, but it’s been very helpful to me to have language and a community of understanding for what I previously just thought of a social awkwardness, math oddities, and idiosyncrasies. It’s helped me with my students, because it frees some of the physical, oral, and behavioral uniqueness of human behavior from the den of “bad behavior.”

I spent a month outside of my 5^th grade classroom. It was the same classroom in which my construction paper rocket ship sailed around the room and lapped several of the other students’. Every time it made a full circuit, for quiz scores, completing assignments, book reports, etc., the teacher took us to Dairy Queen. Most kids never went. I went twice. That highly visible form of praise/judgement torture is a different story (I don’t think anyone was benefitted, myself included), but my point is I performed well. I was praised in school. Always.

But there was fully a month when my teacher just couldn’t stand to have me in her presence. I can laugh about it now, and I did back then. Sorta. It was normal for a child to have to sit outside the classroom, silently, when they got in trouble. But it wasn’t normal for a student to be parked out there for a month, and everybody in every grade knew that. Yes, hi 6^th grade class walking by. I’m still here.

The truth is that I have a lot of compassion for my 5^th grade teacher, my fellow classmates, and the catholic school structure in which it was nested. I had compassion back then too. I never hated my teacher. I adored her, even occasionally knocking on the door of her house with a big geek-out smile when my friend and I rode bikes past her house. Mrs. Brown. I was sort of in love with her, in that I’m-eleven-years-old-and-I-don’t-understand-about-life way that was, in the end, kind of adorable.

Except, I wasn’t. I was in the hall. I never understood why.

Increasingly, I do. I move and glitch. Honestly, a lot. I smile too often. Too big. I like holding pencils interlaced between my fingers, staring into space and thinking about things. Nobody had language for this back in the day. We still hardly do.

Today, I see these things in others. Not everyone. It’s not something we need to overapply. But I see the way my daughter gets excited and makes that sucking sound through clenched teeth that, though expressive and a little weird, is but a hint of what’s going on inside for her. I mean in her neurons.

We’ve had the great fortune to be surrounded by a community of friends and adults that haven’t shamed this out of her. I’m teary as I write that. We shame these things out of kids because they’re acting strangely. What so many of us don’t understand is that that person is doing something inside of themselves that is important and right.

I see my brother, 7-years-old in my memory, smiling and wiggling his fingers in that unusual way that no one else did. Why? Because he was really happy. I see my student, swinging back and forth on his hands during history class, receiving the lessons as well as anyone.

What is your body doing as it’s learning? Are there sensations you find familiar? Repetitive motions that, while seemingly nonsensical, were with you for years, and maybe still are?

Some of these somatic sensations are positive. For me, the bouncing of my knee is a clear sign that I’m engaged. For my 5^th grade teacher it was the opposite, likely part of the reason I was in the hall. I don’t think she was right or wrong, rather, it was a miscommunication. We had a lack of shared understanding, shared language, plain and simple. Plus, I’m annoying.

Other sensations, like increasing tension in my teeth and jaw, are negative somatic sensations, indications of internal experiences that aren’t exactly wrong but aren’t exactly positive either. For me, it’s not necessarily a sign of lack of engagement or learning, but the desire for an anticipated outcome. Bouncing knees was an open-ended sort of feeling. I could go on and on.

Helping kids understand this about themselves will help them learn. This is an important statement, and I encourage you to let it sink it. It need not (and probably should not) proceed by diagnosing or labeling them, by framing it as neurodivergence or anything else. That is a top-down, external application of knowledge that is far too often misdiagnosed, misapplied, and wrapped like a yoke around a child’s otherwise capable and open heart.

Rather, a child should be invited to recognize and understand their repetitive movements and somatic sensations. The first part of that journey is simply to welcome it, to make these movements and feelings feel like they have a home. They belong. That work is primarily done by the rest of us generously not noticing and putting it in their face. What are you doing? That’s what we’re not going to say to a five-year-old. We’re just going to let them be who they are, without making them think about it, feel self-conscious about it, feel shame and oddity about it. Not at this stage.

Later, as a teen or tween, they might be invited to recognize what they’re feeling or experiencing as they cock their head to one side in that familiar way, or bite their pencil and stare into space.

I’ve referred to the language of neurodivergence with my daughter, but I’ve never suggested that she herself is neurodivergent. She is a maniac geek, in her own unique ways that aren’t so similar to my own. She’s just…a person. It’s helpful to have language, a way to describe things, but it’s almost never helpful to label people, especially if they aren’t embracing that label on their own.

Besides, what I’m trying to encapsulate here, these somatic expressions of learning and neural growth, is only a fragment of the term neurodivergent. What’s important is that there are ways we feel, there are body patterns of posture and movement, that coincide with internal neurological states. Recognizing these for what they are and not needlessly turning them into bad or shameful behavior – I’m going to be a little loud and honest: we will solve a lot of the world’s problems when we stop shaming these things out of our kids.

This needs to be held, obviously, within an understanding of openly rude and malevolent behavior. It’s not appropriate to hit the student next to you because you’re bored or frustrated. Pulling Suzie’s pigtails is not an expression of your wellbeing. There is a balanced ground to be found here. Enforcing socially acceptable behavior and rules in a class or learning environment are sensible choices and crucial to everyone’s collective wellbeing. Distinguishing between these two, rude behavior and healthy somatic expression, is a field ripe for increased awareness.

Consider my student, swinging rather quickly between his chair and desk during history class. We’re talking on thousands of occasions over eight years together. It’s very easy to interpret that behavior as disruptive, wrong, rude, or worthy of negative reinforcement. But it isn’t. It’s just his 12-year-old body wanting to move, to be in motion as he learns. I know this from years of study with him. There is nothing in him that is wrong or inadequate to the task of learning. There is nothing in him that is doing it ‘to’ me or any of his classmates and friends. He’s just swinging while he’s learning.

And yet, there’s the rest of us. It’s equally as important to understand the impact of that motion not just on himself, but on that of his classmates, or me, his teacher. These are very hard things to manage in a typical classroom, where students and teacher may have known each other only for a few months. I had the fortune of working with my students for years, so I was able to have these conversations with them, not just once or twice, but as an evolution of awareness and shared understanding.

“Alright Jeff,” began a typical interaction, “I’m totally fine with you bumping and swinging around a bit. You know that. We all know that. But I need to check in and make sure everyone else is okay, because…you’re kind of a maniac over there. I know you’re paying attention, and I know you’re not trying to disrupt anyone else…but, you know, it’s my job to make sure everyone is okay with a crazy maniac in the corner.”

Jeff laughs. We’re buds. It’s okay for me to call him a crazy maniac. I’m a crazy maniac too, and that’s open knowledge. That’s the fruit of intimacy we share after so many years of trust.

“Um actually, it is a little distracting,” says Nita, with a little edge of annoyance.

“Yeah, fair…” I acknowledge.

“It’s not bothering me,” says Gracie, throwing her arms in that I-don’t-care attitude we’re all familiar with.

“Yeah, it’s fine with me too,” says Greg, “I don’t…” His eyes are wide and he shrugs, as if he wonders why I said anything.

“It is a little annoying Jeffy Boy,” offers Michael, who prefers the pronunciation my-KAY-el to MY-kel, because he’s got the rizz. I hold a pause, looking for any tension between the two. It’s not there.

Others nod, shrug, or turn up the corners of their lips.

“Okay…so Jeff…can you maybe swing or do whatever it is your doing over there, but like…keep it to yourself a bit more?”

“Yeah.” He smiles with a tiny chuckle.

“Nita? My-KAY-el? That cool?”

“Yeah…” they shrug. I can see they’re not super bothered.

“Okay then cool. If we need to recheck in, let’s just do that. Good?” I get a few thumbs up, and turn back to my song about why the 16^th century king of Spain, an Austrian Hapsburg who doesn’t speak Spanish, is in command of a Spanish-speaking empire that, prevented from sailing east to the Indies by the tiny nation of Portugal, instead sailed God-knows-where into the west, found the same place, which wasn’t the same place, and then became the richest nation in the world by taking it from the people who were already living there.

Interruptions like this…they weren’t interruptions. This is middle school. Learning how to navigate social situations, speak one’s piece, and look for consensus – in my opinion this is always a more valuable lesson to tweenagers than Hernan Cortes. But I digress.

So let’s return. The somatic language of learning and teaching. What is happening in a child’s body when they are learning? Are there ways to help them explore that, to feel safe in it, socially safe and not shamed or teased? Are there ways to explore making the rest of the room feel safe too, to distinguish between movement and ill-behavior? Such explorations, for children, for parents, for teachers, for administrations – please, if you don’t already understand this, reach out to me because I honestly would like to help your child.

And then we have teacher. Because a teacher is undergoing somatic experiences in her own body as she goes about the challenging task of teaching and holding the attention of her students. This is happening for kindergarten teachers (and their students). This is happening for grade school teachers (and their students). It’s happening for middle school, high school, college, and… here’s the rub: it’s happening for all of us.

Somatic experience isn’t something that’s isolated to particular individuals or parents with an interest in pop-psychology. It’s an aspect of human life. We often feel it in stressful moments, or therapeutic settings, but it’s present in almost everything we do. Today, there are scores of therapists and practitioners working with somatic therapeutic models to help people process and understand their trauma, grief, depression, anxiety, manic behaviors, and much more. This is the primary field in which you’ll find this language and comprehension: therapy.

My partner, Rachel Halder, is a somatic resolution practitioner who largely works with women with sexual trauma. The somatic lens in this context is very sensitive. And necessary. It’s through conversation with her that I’ve come to understand this language and process better. Women, and surely men too, have a lot of bodily sensations to process as they face their histories of unhealthy and often abusive sexual behavior.

The comparison to education is not wide of the mark. Many of us have unprocessed guilt, shame, trauma, anxiety or fear around our experiences in school. It’s very common for us to bring this fear and judgement into the lives of our children as they face school. We don’t want them to have the same experiences we did, yet we often feel powerless in many situations.

I’m not suggesting a solution to any of this, nor that I am unique in connecting some of these dots, something many other wonderful teachers, parents, and therapists have already done. Some have expressed it better. As a forest school teacher for 10 years, I’m just developing an increasing awareness of the impact of our somatic sensations as we go about the important task of learning and growing up. Like many complex situations in life, there may not be top-down solutions, but increased awareness does help.

That’s what hit me as I set my email down this morning, took a sip of tea, and welcomed in the dawn with the words “the somatic language of teaching and learning.” The truth is that my client, a neurodivergent geek like me, may have an ailment in her jaw that has nothing whatsoever to do with her teaching at summer camp the day before. But I thought it was a fair question. In my role as support person, I think it’s helpful to invite in these kinds of inquiries. Could this sensation, this symptom, be understood from the somatic lens of the impact of a day of teaching? What’s happening in your body as you’re caring for those children? As every teacher knows, teaching has an impact on our bodies. Every lawyer knows this. Every nurse. Every accountant and bus driver. It’s not just the big muscle motions of daily tasks that leave imprints on our bodies, it’s the subtle ways we tap, we hold, we press, we clench, as we go about the sometimes difficult task of being alive together.

Right now, I’m focused on learning. Take a moment and ask: Are there specific body sensations, movements, or behaviors that you recognize in yourself as a student? Patterns you might be able to notice looking back? Or maybe in moments of great triumph, or great stress? These feelings or movements may be a very useful key to understanding who you are.

And now, are there specific body movements or sensations that you recognize in your child, or that your child recognizes in herself, as she attends school? These are likely very valuable things to explore with her. But always at an appropriate age and pace. We’re not trying to induce self-consciousness that leads to masking or hiding. We’re looking to discover the useful tools we might find, when the time is right, to help her navigate her unique style and path of learning and growth.

And if you’re a teacher or caretaker, are there specific body sensations you recognize in yourself when the class gets uppity, out of control, joyful, or relaxes into silent, engaged learning? Or whatever other range of experiences you have? Recognizing these and seeing them as allies and tools for discovery, rather than hateful or unwanted behaviors, may be a helpful lens.

With kindness and humility, and gratitude for all the people who helped me discover so much in life, including Mrs. Brown. Thanks.

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Opportunity

I am currently working with a learning center in Taos and a group of mothers near my home in El Rito, NM, talking and consulting about putting together forest school programs for their kiddos based in part on the Juniper School I created and ran for 10 years. I am also working with parents and teachers, both locally and online, who are navigating alternative paths of education for their children.

I AM LOVING THIS WORK!

If you are a parent or teacher facing choices or questions regarding learning and growth in your children, whether that’s in a conventional school, homeschool, or an alternative, now is an excellent time to reach out to me. I’m seeing the positive impact of my work in families and communities, and it’s making me smile.

I am available for a quick consultation call. If we have shared interests, we can discuss ways I may be able to help. I am interested in working with families, parents, teachers, and groups of parents who are seeking ideas and support as they think outside the box about what life and learning truly are. I’m focused on the human, not the curriculum, an inside-out approach. How do we understand ourselves, our bodies and minds, so that we’re building a bright and successful vision from the inside-out of who we are and what we want to take on in life? School can be drudgery. Being alive and in possession of one’s learning power is a joy.

Send me a message. We can start very casually.

Much of this work is simply goofing around and playing, but what I’ve come to discover is all the resistance and awkwardness we, as adults, often bring to being openly innocent and playful. In a sense, it’s hard work. But it’s dear to my heart and I’m diving in pretty deep.

Part of that has been exploring a working definition of play:

• play (noun): the natural state of the mind and body at the growing edge of experience.

• play (verb): unrestrained behavior in order to learn.

It’s easy to see play as child’s play, and that is an important component, but being the super-geek I am, I’m exploring the big umbrella views at the same time as the little specific things that make us smile. And grow. Laugh with each other. And rest.

Play comprises many things. It is incredibly diverse and personal, so any definition we try to apply will be limited. I’m not attached to this definition or any other, but I’d like a chance to explain why these definitions help me, support this group I’m working with, and ideally might help you discover the edges and joys of your own playful body.

It’s been about a month with this group. We have 35 people, and as I dive deeper into it, I’m finding all sorts of jewels. But they’re not always the type of jewels you’d expect. While most of us orient to play as fun and laughter, the reality is that for adults seeking to earn this silliness back - one of the first steps is creating safety with any discomfort and uncertainty we feel.

Many of us want to play more, but the second another person, even a child, says something or does something that isn’t to our liking - it can induce discomfort, painful memories, feelings of not being wanted, and on and on. Even when we’re alone, most of us face these voices and feelings inside of us. Often it’s enough to prevent us from really engaging in playful ways. The truth is that it’s very vulnerable.

Playing with kids is one thing, but what I’m taking on now is helping adults who often feel shy, hedged in, and uncertain to find playfulness in their own style and their own bodies. This is not easy work. To cultivate enough safety for adults to let down some of their walls and resistance in order to access free-hearted and open play - it takes guts for all of us. Oddly enough, I find that trauma and grief are immediately part of the process.

So many of us want to reacquaint ourselves with that silly space inside of ourselves that we know exists, that used to exist, that can and will be found. But to get there, we quickly notice the brambles, the discomforts and quick reactions we have when we encounter something we’re not yet ready to do.

It’s exactly the same for children, but by and large children rebound faster than we do. They get into arguments and feel excluded and judgy all the time. Watch a group of kids in the backyard or on the playground. Their games are constantly disrupted with conflict and argument, resistance and complaint. But they’re invested in it, so they more readily put irritation aside and get their hands back in the dirt.

Many of us as adults are ready to get our hands back in the dirt, but after decades of distrust and discomfort that arose from experiences in play yards, school days, and so much responsibility and work, playfulness often feels inaccessible.

How do we get back there?

It’s a real question, and I think there are as many answers as there are people on the planet.

What is crucial, I believe, is softness. Trust. Building a slow repertoire of safety in oneself and one’s own experience. It’s also important to notice obvious boundaries, like, “Nope, I’m not doing that.” If we meet these edges with something like force or pushing through, maybe some of us can work with that, but most of us are going to face a flood of memories, sensations, emotions, even fear, freeze, or flight. Hopefully not fight!

I’m developing a structure that looks something like this:

1. practice the building blocks of play (simple joys)

2. identify what play is for you

3. develop confidence in solo play first

4. practice attunement when playing with others

The building blocks are things like playing with stones, using sticks to tap and listen to sound, recalling silly things that immediately make you laugh, setting up dolls or figures - the foundational skills of playing with your senses, your imagination, with characters, with words, and all the bits and pieces that make you the human you are.

Now, hopefully, we can understand my attempt at a definition a little better: play is the natural state of the mind and body (the whole human) at the growing edge of experience.

It’s what fingers do when they are trying to learn how to hold a cup (at age 2). They play their way into learning how to do it. Oops! That didn’t work. It fell. Let’s try again. Cry if you need to.

It’s what eyes do when they are adjusting to new patterns of color and movement (like watching a fish under water). Eyes literally have to play their way into seeing correctly. It’s an adjustment, a learning that requires a bit of guessing at first.

It’s what voices do when they are unconstrained and share the laughter and joy of sound. They’re playing.

It’s also what we do when we’re at the edge of difficult and new experiences, like fixing a leaky faucet or speaking with our teen about friendships and growing responsibilities. If we seek the immediate and correct completion of a task we have not yet mastered - we’re usually in for a big disappointment. Faucets are tricky. Teens are complex.

Play is the thing we do, literally the neurological process, that brings our mind and body to the edge of an experience and futzes around with it in order to learn about it.

This is why, as adults, play can be so challenging. Because the wild and free flow of neurons and their playful ways of testing the waters of new experiences are often constrained by traumas, memories, and other experiences that prevent us from giving ourselves freely to the moment (because what if somebody sees me). Play becomes, in many ways, restrained.

Understanding this is crucial, not so much for kids, but for us as adults. To be more playful, we have to gently tease apart the thick knots of restraint that we’ve acquired over the years, so that the threads of experience are loose and free, and ready to play again. This is real work! It needs to proceed sensitively.

Like exercise, if we want to learn how to play, we can’t just imagine a hulk of a guy or a model’s body and then give it a day or two, feel disappointed, then go home and say we’re just not cut out for this. That’s leaping too far, too quickly. We’re likely going to injure ourself, or just give up. If we want to build strength and resilience back into our play muscles, we have to learn how to be with ourselves just as we are, trust our edges, welcome the discomfort, and ease into play in digestible doses.

For example, I wouldn’t recommend flinging yourself into a playground with a bunch of kids. They don’t care about you. I’m serious. I don’t mean that in a rude way, just as a reminder that kids aren’t there to make us feel good. They’re there for themselves. They’re playing with THEIR edges. How are you engaging yours? If you’re a mother or father and you want to play with your kids more, don’t try to bench press 400 lbs right off the bat. Build comfort with the foundational skills of play in your own body first.

Why?

What we’re trying to do is develop confidence in our play so that when kids or others respond to it awkwardly, negatively, or just apathetically, we aren’t crushed by their lack of validation. As adults we need to bring something more to the table than just our playfulness. And that is confidence. Needing someone else, especially a child, to feel happy about how we’re playing is potentially a recipe for disappointment. Rather, we practice enjoying play on our own, so that we become more confident and can bring that playfulness into other’s lives and withstand the bumps and bruises that are often part of the process.

After this comes attunement, which is the ability to recognize how one’s playfulness is landing on others. This is a step many of us do not perceive. We might get to a place where we’re thoroughly enjoying what we’re doing, but sometimes we have little to no awareness of how it’s impacting others. Are we being wild and forceful? Are we small, secretive, and demanding of someone’s intimate attention? Is it pushing someone else into an edge of experience that they’re not comfortable with yet? Or are we freely playing with one another, with that beautiful sense of permission that makes the coming and going pleasant?

So much to explore in all this. I’m enjoying it thoroughly. It’s play for me. I’m at the growing edge of my experience, trying to learn not just how to play, and not just how to play with kids, but how to share the rudiments and structure of play so that more adults and families of all ages and sizes might find more laughter and pleasure in life.

I believe our culture needs this work in order to balance the intensity and seriousness many of us feel in life. Play is free, a no-cost method to cultivate connection, joy, and laughter with ourselves and with others. It also helps us learn new things! Used skillfully, it is an incredible tool to build intimacy and connection in our lives.

play (noun): the natural state of the mind and body at the growing edge of experience.

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Joseph Sarosy is the author of Off Grid Kids, Juniper Heartwood, and How to Tell Stories to Children (now in 22 languages). He is the creator of the Juniper School, a forest school in northern New Mexico, a founder in the VELA Network, and an innovator of Indie Education. He is currently facilitating a project called Play Ground, a no-cost WhatsApp group for adults who want to reawaken playfulness in their daily lives.

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Parenting with Depression

and other emotional intensities

PARENTING WITH DEPRESSION is a WhatsApp Group for parents facing depression, trauma, anxiety, grief, and other significant emotional states. The purpose is not to heal or shift those emotional states (though that’s a welcome influence), but to understand how we can safely face these difficult feelings, which we know to be real, without negatively impacting our children.

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Depression and Trauma

Two years ago, I went through a significant period of grief and depression. I lost my home, my financial security, and the woman I loved. I was overwhelmed and flooded with difficult emotions every day for weeks and months. This triggered unwanted and shameful feelings in me from an early childhood trauma when my mother died suddenly. I was 14 months old. As I explored (and resisted) those feelings, it became obvious to me that I needed to stay with some of those sensations in order to bring healing into my body.

I’m grateful to say that I did that. I am no longer depressed. In fact, I’m in a period of life where I am thriving. I recently completed 10 years of forest school with my students and am collaborating with people and communities on what feels like my life’s work. I have a new partner in my life, a wonderful home and garden, and good friends. Of course, like all humans, I continue to face difficult feelings from time to time, but now with a much improved awareness of their impact.

What caught my attention, during this period of depression and after, is that my daughter thrived. She’s 14. She’s confident, intelligent, and outgoing. She begins high school in the fall. We are very close, yet when I went through this period of depression (which was nearly 2 years), she didn’t:

• get depressed with me

• feel responsible for making me feel better

• hate or resist the loss of my fun, loving self

• get entwined with me in weird codependent ways

How did we manage to do that?

I like honest questions, not simplified answers. I have insight to share, but I am not a licensed therapist and I don’t like when people pretend to have complete or final answers. This group is about inquiry. It’s about listening. As a teacher and parent, I have witnessed that excellent learning and growth in a child or student (including myself) is usually attended with space for that person’s internal inquiry and process. It is possible to present or teach information, but if it doesn’t spark that internal wrestling match with one’s own ways of thinking, it’s often weak and flaccid learning, and therefore easily lost.

Having talked with many friends, counselors, and elders, I now recognize that my daughter and I managed to navigate a dark passage without either of us leaning too heavily on one or the other. Somehow, we loved each other while escaping a very common pattern of unhealthy co-dependent emotional dynamics.

If you want to explore this subject with me and a group of willing adults, sign up using the link below. There is no cost and you may leave the group at anytime.

Parenting with Depression

Context within Male/Female Dynamics

When I speak with adult women about the journey my daughter and I went on, I find that many of them react with surprise, excitement, but also intensity and regret. Men too. People often speak to me of having felt responsible for caretaking their parents’ feelings (especially their father’s). Women in particular then find themselves repeating this pattern in adult relationships, where they feel obligated to witness and manage their male partner’s or friend’s emotions. It’s a dynamic many have come to regret. Some have escaped it. Others less so. How did my daughter and I avoid this?

Or, here’s a better question - Did we? I believe it is fair to say that we navigated this time in a healthy way, but as I said earlier - I dislike acting like I’ve done something right and now I know how to repeat it for myself or someone else. I prefer asking questions, leaving room for disagreement, and learning with others in a shared peer-oriented space where we retain the autonomy to take any discussion into our own hearts, agree or disagree, and find our unique expression of behavior and truth.

See the following 4-min video for how I tried to do that with my daughter, and let her speak for herself. It’s a good example of how I will facilitate the group.

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The Importance of Feeling

Our culture is under a lot of pressure right now. Many parents are facing personal, financial, and political stress, as well as their own histories of personal trauma. Thankfully, we’re better able to talk about these things today than in previous generations. We’re less likely to ignore or turn away from intense emotions and “toughen up.” We see the benefit of self-growth, and how it often requires us to face dark feelings like anxiety, depression, and grief. I think this is a huge improvement, and many of us recognize it in our friendships, partnerships, and the ways we’re raising children.

Sometimes, of course, facing those feelings comes with a sense of urgency for someone to help or understand how we feel, and often we reach out to the people closest to us. Today, many of us are single parents raising single children. There’s literally millions of us. There are beautiful experiences to be had like this, but also the danger of pulling our kids too close as we face our own inner turmoil, turmoil that deserves attention and expression in order to be released and bring the possibility of healing and new growth.

How do we give our attention to those legitimately difficult feelings without irresponsibly dragging our loved ones (and especially our kids) along with us and unwittingly holding them responsible for our emotional safety and wellbeing?

I’m excited to hear myself ask that question.

Parenting with Depression

Joseph Sarosy

I am the author of How to Tell Stories to Children (22 languages worldwide), Off Grid Kids, and this publication Juniper Heartwood. In 2018, I created the Juniper School, a forest school in northern New Mexico, then spent 8 years teaching a group of children outdoors from 1st to 8th grade. We graduated in May 2026. I am a founder and grant recipient in the VELA Network, an innovator of Indie Education, and am currently supporting individuals and communities seeking alternative paths to education for their children. I also facilitate a project called Play Ground, a WhatsApp group for adults who want to reawaken simple heartfelt playfulness in daily life. It is my goal to learn how to facilitate and teach play for ages 2 to 92, not as a solution to life’s challenges, but as a supporting and no-cost ingredient in the richness of life.

This dynamic has always captured my attention, including in young children who struggle to play with others. Kids or adults in this situation often feel left out, confused, and then self-judgment creeps in the window. Why can’t I play like they do…?

It can be a painfu…

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I spent a couple hours yesterday playing with a 5-year-old. His father died recently from ALS, far too young, a brilliant and active man who enriched this community and loved his children deeply. I’m doing a few things to support the family, as are many others: a mother, her two older daughters, and this young boy.

I’m not going to use names or share abo…

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Today, I am expanding and refining that work in a project I’ve named Play Ground. Play Ground is a WhatsApp…

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On the way home my daughter and I, in several different phrases, kept saying the same thing to each other: “Wow, um…I think we did it.”

We did. In t…

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In 2016, I began teaching a small group of 4-year-olds in the forests and canyons of northern New Mexico. I am a civil engineer with a master’s degree in philosophy, a published author in 22 languages, and a geek for nature’s small joys. I’m also a dad. For ten years, this small band of kids has been in my care as we learned the ABC’s, how to read, writ…

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We were in class the other day,…

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I don’t mean this in a practical sense. I’m asking a question of the soul.

Here’s what I think it is: bluebirds on chocolate brown fenceposts, gray with eternity. The non-hierarchical leader of the pack. A breeze worth a million dreams. Chemistry in the moment.

It’s been ten years of teaching in forests and canyons. TEN YEARS. Graduatio…

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Your care, whether as a reader of Off Grid Kids, a close friend, an acquaintance from Lama, a reader of How to Tell Stories to Childr…

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If you happen to be standing near a canyon or hilltop, they descend upon you with gray breasts flashi…

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As they pass through our hands, the blonde husks nick and scratch in contrast …

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I’m standing in a crowded hall, not much large…

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In 1587, 100 English settlers were brought to Roanoke Island (off the coast of North Carolina). The leader of this expedition, John White, stayed only for about a month before returning to England for more supplies. Among those left behind were John White’s own wife, daughter, and granddaughter. White’s intention was to return, but he was delayed by wea…

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We were dancing in an oak glade, dressed like zombies, warriors, grannies, and wolves. The wife of Hobgoblin danced the Monster Mash, plying us with cookies made of sweet potato root…and some kind of insect. “Hit us,” I said to Benson.

“You want me to hit you?” he asked in confusion. I burst out laughing, trying to keep the backup vocals going with Grann…

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I found myself in class the other day, smiling inwardly about how excited the kids were. It’s something I’ve been routinely struck with throughout the year, often surprised. I keep expecting the kids to be more frustrated and resistant. This is middle school. Where’s the boredom and eye rolls?

But the kids aren’t bored. And I’m not either. History class …

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