We probably have what some parenting experts would consider a bad bedtime routine.

Every night, our kids watch an episode of a brain-friendly show before bed.

I know, screens before bed. Blue light. Melatonin. We’re doing it all wrong.

But maybe… we’re not? It works for us.

Especially our neurodivergent kids. They curl up on the sofa, watch something together, and slowly wind themselves down before heading upstairs.

But here’s the caveat: it has to be the RIGHT show. A calming show, one that actually brings the energy in the room down.

Not one that’s the equivalent of cocaine for kids. You know exactly what kind of show I’m talking about. Bright colours, loud music, a new camera angle every 0.7 seconds. EVERYONE YELLING!

No thanks.

So, over the years, we’ve collected a handful of shows that we just keep coming back to. And because I’m picky, these five also happen to leave you with a sweet little moral or lesson without them even realising it.

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Here are our five favourites:

1. Bluey

This one’s a no-brainer. Like, duh.

And yes, while I get that Bluey is not the calmest show on this list, it overall just feels nice. And relatable. And I often have to chuckle at the innuendos and little parallels I see with our own family and home.

And sometimes, it makes me cry. Looking at you, Baby Race.

Nervous system rating: 4/5

2. Shape Island

This one is a little weird. In a good way, though. It’s literally about shapes, living on an island.

Circle, Square and Triangle have very different personalities and spend most of their time working through friendship, feelings and geometric disagreements.

It’s colourful without being COLORFUL, funny without being loud, and slow enough that nobody gets up afterwards and immediately starts Benson Booning off the furniture (though that would be pretty cool because Benson Boon is the GOAT).

Nervous system rating: 4/5

3. Frog and Toad

While I love this show, it’s also super boring. Almost nothing happens in every single episode, and the story progresses super slowly.

They go for walks. They eat cookies. They visit each other. One of them is significantly more useless than the other (I won’t tell you which one to avoid any spoilers).

But it always has us completely invested. It’s sweet, funny and has this lovely old-fashioned slowness to it that makes you realise just how much STUFF is happening in most modern kids’ television.

Nervous system rating: 5/5

4. Puffin Rock

If a weighted blanket were a children’s television show, I think it would be Puffin Rock.

Adorable little puffins potter around a beautiful Irish island while Chris O’Dowd gently narrates their extremely low-stakes lives.

That’s pretty much it. Just puffins. I’ll admit that sometimes I don’t understand everything (you know, because of the accent), but it still always helps chill everyone out.

Nervous system rating: 4/5

5. Stillwater

And last but not least, the absolute winner in our house. Stillwater.

Stillwater is a giant panda who lives next door to three children (hello, parallels with our house) - and he’s calmer than any living creature has a right to be.

The kids come to him with worries, arguments, frustrations and all the usual childhood dramas, and instead of immediately trying to fix everything, he listens, aske questions, and tells them stories to look at whatever’s happening from a different perspective.

And this is why I especially love it for our neurodivergent kids. There’s mindfulness woven through it, but it never feels like someone tricked your child into watching a lesson about emotional regulation.

Nervous system rating: 6/5

Yes, Stillwater gets six. Because I make the rules.

Obviously, none of this is scientifically proven, but after the ungodly number of hours I’ve spent playing trial and error and watching children’s television, this is what works for us.

I’d love to hear some more suggestions from you all. What are some of your favorite kids’ shows?

With love,

Buy me a coffee!

OK - this article’s a little unusual (even for me), but I promise there’s a moral in the story. Bear with me…

Last weekend, ten members of our extended family (including 5 kids) went on a walk with donkeys through the hills and forests around Evian, France.

Yes, Evian as in the water. You know the one with the funny adults-turning-into-babies ads; the whole fountain of youth thing? That Evian.

Donkeys ≠ poneys

Anyway, it was our first time walking donkeys - and to be honest, I’d never really thought much about donkeys before. They’re just like slightly less glamorous horses with surprisingly fluffy ears (which, FYI, they really don’t like you touching).

But the man who owned them explained that they’re actually very different from horses, or ponies. Especially ponies.

In fact, he got irrationally upset that we kept referring to them as ponies. Our hotel guide had specifically warned us NOT to call them ponies. Within the first five minutes, we’d accidentally done it anyway, and needless to say - he was not very happy with us.

But he had a point. Donkeys are nothing like ponies.

They’re incredibly calm, patient and gentle. They don’t make sudden movements. You can even walk behind them without worrying they’re suddenly going to drop kick you in the stomach (there’s some unresolved trauma from my childhood summer pony camps right there).

So we brushed them, saddled them up, and the kids got on their respective donkeys. My daughter’s donkey was called Cookie and was the softest little thing I’ve ever touched.

Then, the owner gave us some very specific instructions. (This is where the parenting parallel starts, folks.)

That’s it.

He said donkeys can basically understand any language. Obviously they don’t actually speak French or English or German, but they read your tone, your body language and, most importantly, whether you actually mean what you’re saying.

You don’t stand still and pull on the rope, or wait for the donkey to decide it’s ready. And you definitely don’t keep asking nicely.

So off we went, a little giddy, and a little nervous, but generally feeling quite settled by the coolness and calmness of our animals.

Case in point

At one point, we walked through a field and our guide warned us that to the donkeys, this was basically one giant dessert buffet.

Naturally, the donkeys decided to try their luck at eating everything within reach.

Fair enough. I do the same at dessert buffets.

Except we still had four kilometres to go - and a few cranky, hungry kids in tow.

So we tried to get the party moving, and did exactly what we’d been told not to do. We tugged on the donkeys and tried to negotiate with them.

“Come on Cookie, let’s go,” I said.

And much like my children normally do, Cookie completely ignored me.

Then I heard the owner calling from up ahead:

“Tell your donkey where you’re going. And just, GO.”

So I did. And the donkey just…followed. No hesitation whatsoever. WHAT SORCERY IS THIS!

And that’s when it clicked.

Oh my God. Is this actually the key to parenting?

It was like a lightbulb went off in my exhausted mom brain.

Because I spend a ridiculous amount of my life standing metaphorically beside a patch of grass asking my children to please, for the love of God, put their shoes on.

“Guys, shoes.”

“We need to go.”

“Can you put your shoes on, PLEASE?”

“Shoes.”

“We’re leaving in five minutes.”

“Where ARE your shoes?”

“WE NEED TO GO.”

All while I’m still standing there, too. Feeling like a complete idiot. I’ve given the same instruction twelve times, they’ve ignored me twelve times, and we’re not getting any closer to successfully getting in the car (at least not with our shoes on).

But Cookie didn’t need me to ask again. She just needed me to start moving.

And I realised that maybe sometimes, my kids need the same thing.

Now, I’m not saying my kids are like donkeys. Obviously, they're marginally more intelligent, complicated, and beautiful creatures. (Although my oldest eats ridiculously slowly and frequently refuses to move because she’s still eating, so there is some overlap.)

But I think what struck me was the certainty of it.

So this past week, I’ve been trying two new things

First, I’ve been trying to channel our donkey guy, who seemed completely unfazed by absolutely everything.

Second, I’ve been trying to actually mean what I say the first time I say it.

“Okay. Time for school. Shoes on.”

And then I start getting us out the door.

“Time for bed. Upstairs.”

And I start going upstairs.

Just... we’re going this way. Follow me, tiny humans.

And weirdly, it’s been working. (But I really really don’t want to jinx it with this right here).

Obviously this doesn’t apply to everything. My kids get choices. Their opinions matter. They’re allowed to say no. They’re allowed to disagree with me. And God knows they exercise that right enthusiastically.

So what did I actually learn from the donkeys?

Well, for starters, my kids went from being nervous around them to begging me to buy one by the end of the walk. I’ll admit, I considered it for longer than I should have. We do have a garden, and lots of grass. But apparently donkeys live up to 50 years and I don’t want to be in diapers taking care of a donkey.

But mostly, I left with

some new (unintended) parenting wisdom that’s been rattling around my brain ever since:

Tell your donkey where you’re going. And go.

So that’s what I’m trying to do.

Metaphorically, obviously.

With love.

Buy me a coffee!

With thanks to Benjamin at La Ferme des Genti’Anes and Hôtel Royal Evian for the wonderful organisation.

First off, let me preface this piece by saying that we have 3 kids - with 3 wildly different definitions of fun. Our oldest (11) is terrified of big rides, or anything that goes faster than a tractor. Our middle child (8) LOVES big rides. And our youngest (6), who is autistic and very likely PDA, is something of a theme park wildcard. Sometimes he’ll surprise us and want to go on something we were convinced he’d hate. Other times, something completely innocuous just be a downright, non-negotiable NO.

Also, while we’re definitely not new to this particular park, this was our first visit back since finding out that our son is autistic. Meaning, the challenges aren’t new, but our understanding of them was.

This time, we had a much better idea of what might overwhelm him, feeling more open-minded and flexible to changing our plans on the fly, and entirely less determined to make him experience the park ‘the traditional way’. And even then, we made some rookie mistakes.

Here’s what worked - and what didn’t.

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First, we invested in space - and time

We stayed for two nights at the Bell Rock hotel, and our room was great. More importantly, it was BIG. We had two bedrooms, everyone had their own bed, and we had enough space for everyone to spread out.

This is something we now just consider an investment in our sanity. Sharing a room with five people (especially our particular cocktail of five) is a recipe for disaster. Someone’s always touching someone. Someone’s making an annoying noise, or breathing too loud. It never ends well.

So, space buys us sanity.

Time does, too. We didn’t get there and throw ourselves right into the park. No, we explored the hotel, got lots of park maps, got some mocktails, and talked to the kids about what everyone wanted to do.

We were ready. Or as ready as five people with completely conflicting needs can ever be.

Then we got a green card (no, not that one)

It wasn’t quite as exciting as getting a US green card, but it came pretty close.

Once we’d provided proof of our son’s autism, the info office gave us a ‘green card’, which is basically like a fast pass for up to 6 rides per day, with up to 4 accompanying family members.

We actually only used it three times the whole weekend, because the rides he was most interested in doing came with very reasonable queues. But KNOWING it was there mattered just as much.

A long, crowded queue when your child is already approaching his sensory limit is the last thing any parent needs. It also made us feel, for the first time, like we didn’t have to pretend our son could experience the park exactly like everybody else. We were special.

Divide and conquer

If there was one theme to our weekend, it was divide and conquer.

One parent would take one child on a ride while the other disappeared somewhere else with the other two. Then we’d swap, regroup for food, and split up again.

It was less family day at the theme park and more supply chain logistics with poffertjes. But it worked.

Everyone got to do things they enjoyed, our youngest stayed (mostly) regulated, and we got through most meals without major incident.

And we took lots of time-out breaks.

This park in particular has lots of quiet, secluded little places that you can go to retreat and recharge. So on day 1, when he was getting frazzled, I bought him a little dinosaur excavation kit, found somewhere quiet and we sat down to do it together.

In that moment, he just needed space to have some undivided attention with his safe person. Meanwhile, it was so hot that my butt cheeks were sweating, but his nervous system was under control, so I consider that a win.

Later that afternoon, though, I could see he was done. So I took him all the way back to the hotel for some proper downtime and suggested a movie, or the pool.

He immediately opted for the pool (much to my surprise), but five minutes after getting in, he announced he was ready to go back to the park.

Nothing like walking out of a gigantic theme park, back to your hotel, changing a six-year-old into swimming trunks, swimming for five minutes, drying him, getting dressed again and walking all the way back to the park for more sensory overload.

The following day, though, we made a more serious mistake.

We didn’t feed him on time

We were late (this being 11.37) heading from one activity to the lunch restaurant. We’d squeezed in just one more (albeit calm) ride, and that ride was the last drop in his bucket.

So he blocked. Right there in the middle of the park. He didn’t scream, or cry, or hit me. He just…stopped, and crossed his arms. He wouldn’t move. Everything was a hard ‘no’.

A few people gave us curious glances as they strolled past. They were probably wondering what was happening here. But we know him well enough now to recognise that internally, everything was happening.

Eventually, after about 20 minutes and more sweaty butt cheeks, we managed to redirect him towards a little boat-driving activity nearby and then, crucially, fed him. Once he’d eaten, he slowly came back online.

But we knew we’d pushed it. So instead of squeezing every last drop out of the day because we’d paid for it (both financially and emotionally), we did another ride or two and left the park.

Quality over quantity. Something I’m getting much better at saying, even if part of my brain is still quietly calculating the cost per ride.

But by GOD, the shops

If I had to pick our biggest challenge for the weekend? The shops. For any child, shops are exciting. For an autistic PDA child who’s seeking sensory regulation?

Shops are our worst nightmare.

He’d walk through or past a shop (when it couldn’t be avoided) and immediately wanted everything he saw. A rock. A magnet. A snow globe. A toy. It didn’t really matter what it was - for him, it was about regulation.

We did end up buying a few little souvenirs, because you know - you have to pick your battles.

And then we made the mistake of stopping at an arcade

This one was entirely our fault. As a kid, I LOVED arcade games. I could play for hours. But when it was time to go? It was time to go.

So, what could be the harm, right? Apparently, a lot.

At first, we were off to a great start. He had fun playing a few games, collecting points. But then… it came to choosing a prize. And he was met with ‘l’embarras du choix’, loosely translated as ‘the burden of choice’.

Picking his prize took longer than the actual time he spent playing games. His system was in complete overwhelm with choice and he just couldn’t pick.

Eventually, after much negotiation and informing him that he did not, in fact, have enough points to buy a brand-spanking new macbook laptop, he landed on a cheap miniature biliard game.

The problem? Once opened, he discovered that it was a essentially a piece of crap that looked nothing like the picture on the box, and it fell apart almost immediately (surprise, surprise).

Naturally, I braced myself, knowing it would be a meltdown. Here we go…

“They LIED.”

He LOST it. That was the icing on top of the cake. He immediately demanded that we return and exchange it because, in his mind, the situation was perfectly clear: the game was bad quality, therefore the people selling it had deceived him, therefore this injustice needed to be rectified immediately.

There was no rectifying the situation. Even if I wanted to, the park was now closed and I was not even physically able to go back.

This ended up in a one-hour meltdown that started in a cocktail bar, and ended with a full-blown meltdown in our hotel room.

Eventually, we were regulated and went right on down to dinner. But I’d learned my lesson. No more arcade games, ever!

So, was it worth it?

Mmmm, yes - and also, no.

Sure, we all had a good time. The kids experienced new things. We laughed. We ate crappy (but delicious) food. We stayed in a beautiful hotel, enjoyed some new shows, and fearlessly tested our limits.

But it also felt like a military exercise for us parents. And neither my husband nor I actually got to enjoy any of the rides that we wanted to do, we just followed around three small humans for two days, and ended up spending A LOT of money and energy.

Of course, that was the point. We knew that was our strategy from the get-go, but it was a mixed bag of nuts. At least they were caramelized.

Would we go again? Yes. But probably not for another year or two. I don’t know if I could handle it before then.

And if I could do it all over again?

I’d definitely bring our trolley so our youngest could rest when his legs and have a quiet space to recover. I’d build in (even) more downtime. I’d go to lunch even earlier than usual.

And I would walk past the arcade like it was actively on fire.

Much love.

I used to envy people with thick skin. You know the type. If I were to stereotype, it would be your classic Karen. You can say something genuinely rude to them and they just kind of… shrug it off. File it under the Not My Problem index, and carry on with their day.

Meanwhile, tell me something even mildly offensive, and my brain will undoubtedly wake me up at 2 a.m. to replay the conversation on a loop, workshopping the perfect comeback.

What is it about the perfect comeback anyway? Why does it always show up 4 hours late, in the shower, for only an audience of shampoo bottles? That’s ok, it still makes me chuckle.

The funny thing is, though, that it’s rarely strangers who get under your skin.

Strangers are so much easier to handle. You can just write them off as that: strangers. They don’t know you anyway. If someone’s rude to me on Substack or Insta, I can just delete the comment and very satisfyingly click the ‘block’ button. BOOM. Done. Moving on.

No, it’s actually the people that I love, look up to, or admire that matter the most. And oftentimes, they’re my harshest critics.

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Some examples from my mental diary

When we announced our third baby, someone close to us looked at me and said:

“Well, you’ve dug your own hole. Don’t expect us to get you out of it.”

Ok, so no congratulations then?

I was SHOOK. But still, I laughed, because that’s what polite girls do. Then I went home and felt like someone had let the air out of my lungs. They’d single-handedly taken the joy out of our announcement, for no reason at all, just because they could.

Five years later, that little avocado-sized fetus was now a beautiful, intelligent little boy who struggled with big emotions, rigidity, and transitions - and we went on a long and exhausting hunt for answers.

Almost two years of appointments, evaluations, questionnaires, and professionals watching my son play and taking very serious notes later, we finally got an answer for why everyday life was so much harder for him than it seemed to be for other kids:

Autism.

Finally, an answer. Then shortly after, we shared the news with our close friends and family, and (though most of them were incredibly supportive), one of the reactions was,

“Come on, he doesn’t have autism. This whole diagnosis is just bullshit. It’s just an excuse for permissive parenting.”

I wanted to SCREAM. Somehow, this person had just taken every two-hour meltdown, every difficult transition, every awkward playdate, and every school and therapist meeting we’d sat through, and flattened it into a shrug.

Then there was the running commentary on my body, and obvious lack of physical fitness.

Now, mind you, I used to be pretty active - before I had kids. Actually, even after I had my first and second. I kept up with my workouts, and I looked (pretty) good. After my third? Hormonally, psychologically, and physically, all hell broke loose. I just couldn’t muster the energy or willpower anymore. My blood pressure was through the roof. I was just tired and unmotivated to move my body. And I get it: if you knew me back when I had a semi-hot bod, and you look at me now, you might think it’s a shame she let herself go like that.

And of course, I got several comments around the same theme,

“You’d probably feel better if you did some sports.”

Yes, you’re entirely right. But when exactly am I supposed to squeeze that in? Between my job, three kids, the household, countless therapy appointments, recovering from multiple surgeries, and generally just trying to survive life? Or maybe I should just wake up at 4 a.m. and add another thing to my growing to-do list? I know, some moms are able to do it. And I celebrate you! But it’s just not at the top of my priority list right now.

I’m starting to make my peace with that. Some days, when I have the time and the energy, I do. I’ll play tennis, go for a walk, or head out for a run. And yes, it usually makes me feel better.

Other days, I decide my body deserves a rest, a cookie (or two), and a nap.

I’m actually thinking of making my personal theme song a remix titled ‘I’m too chubby for my pants’. Alternatively, ‘I’m chubby, and I know it’ also works.

Why do I even care so bloody much?

I’ve always thought I was just insecure by nature. But since I’ve opened Pandora’s Box, I’ve started wondering where that insecurity actually came from.

Why do I use other people’s reactions as some sort of measuring stick for how I’m doing at life?

I did some research, and turns out there isn’t one neat answer. It’s a mambo-jumbo of things…

Some of it might just be how I’m wired. Apparently, some people are naturally more sensitive to rejection and social cues than others. We’re the ones noticing the raised eyebrow, the slight change in tone. Guilty as charged.

Then there’s childhood. If you’re conditioned to learn that approval is tied to being good, clever, successful, helpful or easy - you subconsciously start using other people’s reactions as proof that you’re doing OK.

(And before my parents read this and start wondering whether I’m faulting them for something - I’m not! I had a very happy childhood with loving, supportive parents. Sometimes it’s just a combination of your personality, the role you naturally fall into, and all the tiny messages you absorb along the way.)

Of course, being a type A kind-of personality doesn’t help either. If you already hate getting things wrong, someone questioning you doesn’t always register as Oh, I guess they would have done it differently. Your brain hears: Damnit, another thing I could be doing better.

So, basically, it can be a charming little cocktail of personality, childhood, perfectionism, past experiences, and a brain that has become far too reliant on customer feedback.

And it doesn’t sound like something I can just fix by deciding I don’t want to care anymore. It’s rooted in me, so it’s going to take a bit more work than that.

So, how do I avoid passing this on to my kids?

I have three kids, and I desperately want to raise them to be confident, happy little people who can decide without having to poll the entire room first.

But - I also don’t want them to steamroll through life completely oblivious to everyone around them. We don’t need any more Karens in the world.

So how do we nudge them into that sweet spot between crippling people-pleaser and arrogant egotist?

I’m not a psychologist (so feel free to correct me, experts), but from what I’ve been reading, it comes down to doing two key things:

1. Separating who they are from what they do.

They need to learn that they can make a bad decision without being bad. They can fail a test without being a failure. Someone can disagree with them without either person automatically being wrong.

I can happily say that I already do this as much as possible. So that’s already something.

1. Letting them make some decisions themselves without swooping in to fix everything for them.

This one’s a doozy for me, because I’m not just a helicopter mom; I’m a drone mom.

I feel their pain and problems so deeply that my instinct is always to protect them. To sweep the road before they’ve even started down it. To cushion the fall before they’ve even had a chance to trip.

But apparently, every time I do that, I’m also taking away a little opportunity for them to discover: Hey, I can actually handle this myself.

I just hate the idea of watching them hurt, or fail. But again, that’s a me-problem.

So, that’s where we’re at. I’m trying to teach them what I’m still learning myself.

To listen to other people without automatically believing them. To make a decision and stand behind it. To screw something up without deciding that I’m a screw-up. To trust that I can handle whatever happens next.

Anyone else also a work in progress in that department? I’d love to hear what comments have stuck with you, and why - and how you’re healing from your insecurities.

With love from your eternal work in progress.

Buy me a coffee!

Years ago, I decided to treat myself to a pedicure at a brand-new nail salon that had opened in a slightly less-glamorous part of town. Not sketchy, per se, but not upscale either.

Anyways, the place was called New York Nails (and it’s still in business, for those living in the vicinity of Lausanne, Switzerland - so, buyer beware).

For someone who was not American but had lived in the States long enough to appreciate a good pedicure, it sounded PERFECT.

This wasn’t going to be some sad little beauty salon where a woman called Francine painted your toes in a dimly lit back room, humming awkwardly while you sat on a dining chair.

This was going to be an experience. Giant massage chairs. Bubbling foot baths. Walls lined with every conceivable shade of nail polish. That unmistakable chemical smell that probably takes a few months off your life. Cheesy music playing overhead. The works.

And to be fair, it was.

The place had comfortable pedicure thrones, each with its own little foot spa. A big Asian family seemed to be running the whole operation, scooting around on tiny stools and moving efficiently between hands and feet, chatting casually to each other in Mandarin, while the rest of us sat there blissfully unaware of what was being said.

Anyways, it felt like the real deal. And I was excited - nay, titillated.

So, I settled into my enormous chair and confidently handed over my feet.

A brief history of my heels

Now. To properly understand what happened next, I need to give you a little background on my heels.

I have calluses. Really hard ones. So hard that a podologist once said I must have some weird thick skin condition because they’re ‘abnormally stubborn’.

I don’t know why. I’ve always had them. I scrub them. I file them. I trim them. I shave them. I slather them in various creams that promise to transform my feet into those of a newborn baby.

I have a drawer full of foot accessories, none of which seem to work. Within days, they feel like scratchy little pumice stones again. At this point, I’ve accepted that my heels are probably just trying to grow their own protective exoskeleton.

But back then, I still had hope. Hope that these professionals, with their expertise and pro-grade equipment, would be able to give me back my baby feet, once and for all.

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Time to roll up those sleeves!

This sweet lady took one look at my heels and got to work. She gave me a look that said I got this, and I totally trusted her for it.

First came the soak, in the hot bubbly bath. Then she applied some sort of callus-removing gel. And then… she pulled out the blade.

If you’ve never seen one of these things, it looks a bit like a tiny vegetable peeler designed specifically for feet. Which, if you think about it, is actually kind of alarming.

But I wasn’t alarmed, you see. They knew what they were doing. Finally, someone was going to show these calluses who was boss.

She took the blade and gave my heel one confident swipe.

Then another.

And that was when she essentially lobbed off a chunk of my foot.

Not the callus. Well, actually, yes the callus. But also, a good bit of my actual foot.

There was a brief moment where neither of us reacted.

Then the blood started. Drip. Drip. Into the water bath.

She looked at my heel. Then she looked at me, with a terrified expression. Kind of like a deer in the headlights. Did she notice?

I looked at her, with a slightly confused expression. Yes, ma’am. I noticed.

She immediately started dabbing at it, mumbling something under her breath. I can only assume that she was saying ‘shit, shit, shit.’

Then, in what remains one of my favourite medical interventions of all time, she dipped my foot back into the pedicure water, brimming with bacteria.

I think she was hoping I hadn’t noticed. As if the color of the foot bath casually turning blood red wasn’t going to be a dead giveaway that something was amiss.

And while I couldn’t actually see the bottom of my heel, I could very much feel that a piece of it was no longer present.

She pulled my foot back out.

Still bleeding.

Dab dab dab.

More blood.

Now, the silver lining here is it wasn’t a deep wound, per se. She hadn’t hit the bone. But it was wide.

She had essentially shaved off a decent-sized patch of heel. And heels, as I came to find out, are quite committed bleeders.

For the next five minutes, she tried to deal with the situation herself while maintaining the general composure of a woman who had absolutely everything under control.

WARNING: To spare you from the actual image, I created a sketch version of my injury. If you want a peek at the original photo (weirdo), DM me.

She did not have everything under control

Eventually, after it became obvious that my foot had no intention of quietly clotting, she casually called over her MANager.

He took one look at my heel and ran out of the salon. Actually ran. Well, more like an awkward urgent shuffle but let’s call it running, to the nearest pharmacy.

So there I sat in the pedicure chair, massage feature still going strong, with one foot presumably looking fabulous and the other actively bleeding.

Just another relaxing afternoon of self-care. That tracks.

About ten minutes later, the manager returned from the pharmacy with some kind of cauterising agent. They put it on, bandaged my heel and watched as the blood promptly soaked straight through. It did not work.

Cue more fussing, more dabbing and more bandages, until eventually someone asked what I wanted them to do. As if I had all the answers.

What did I want them to do?

Fair question.

I just wasn’t really sure what my options were.

A refund?

Compensation?

A new heel?

Call a lawyer?

If this had actually been New York, perhaps this would be the point where I called a lawyer and started mentally spending my giant wad of settlement money.

But this is Switzerland. We don’t really do compensation payouts here.

There was recently a case of a woman who had her uterus accidentally removed and reportedly received around $70,000 in compensation for losing her fertility.

So I wasn’t really optimistic about what my square inch of heel was going to fetch.

Instead, I looked down at my half-finished pedicure and like a sheepish idiot, I just said:

“Could you just finish the nail varnish, please?”

Please.

Because apparently, once I have committed to self-care, I see it through - and apparently I do so politely.

So she did. She painted my toenails. They didn’t charge me. And then I thanked them (THANKED THEM!) and left.

I felt so dumb. Limping through the entire shopping centre carrying one shoe in my hand, one freshly painted foot on display and a giant bandage wrapped around the other. So dumb.

And then I remembered I had to pick up my kids from daycare.

Of course I did. So off I went, limping into daycare with a heavily bandaged foot and what little wedge remained of my dignity.

A few other people couldn’t help but ask what happened (my kids included).

And the reality felt so ridiculous that I decided to take the low road, and flat out lie. “I had an accident and sprained my ankle.”

Because what was I supposed to say? “Oh, nothing. I went for a pedicure and a woman accidentally lobbed off part of my heel.”

Nope on a rope.

Seven years later

The story ended (mostly) happily. The wound eventually healed. And I have no visible scars today. Although even if I did, my committed calluses have long since grown back over whatever evidence that might have remained.

So really, everything worked out. I kept my heel, got my toenails painted and saved the cost of a pedicure.

And I learned a valuable lesson: when choosing someone to come at your body with a blade, perhaps do slightly more research than:

Ooh. New York Nails. Sounds shnazzy!

Although, in my defense, they didn’t have the 1.8-star Google rating yet.

That only came after they’d destroyed the nails of a whole bunch of other people. I’ll leave you to go peruse their review section, if you so please.

Buy me a coffee! ☕

Last week, while vacationing at my parents’ Belgian farmhouse, they informed me that I need to dig a moat.

No, friends, subscribers, and silent lurkers - not literally. (Although, given the state of my boundaries, I’m not ruling any options out at this point.)

They were talking about my burnout, and my inability to set healthy boundaries for the sake of my own sanity.

My parents described my life as a castle. A once gorgeous castle. Strong walls. Solid foundations. Despite plenty going on inside, it was holding itself together quite nicely.

Except today, my castle is in ruins.

The walls are crumbling. The guards have abandoned their posts. The drawbridge is permanently down. There’s no moat for protection.

And then there’s me, standing at the entrance, cheerfully waving people in while they pillage what’s left of the fortress.

And the annoying thing is: THEY’RE SO RIGHT.

I have absolutely no moat.

Ask me for something and, before I’ve even checked whether I have the time, energy or psychological reserves to do it, I’ve probably already said yes.

Hey, can you watch my two kids for a week on top of your three? Oh, and there’s no space for us in the house when we arrive, so you’ll be sleeping with all five of them alone. Is that OK?

Sure!

Hey, can the six of us come over for breakfast tomorrow morning? Also, is it okay if we show up empty-handed?

Sure.

Hey, sorry, we’ve just arrived at your house and it turns out we all have the stomach flu.

…Sure?

Apparently, some people actually think about requests like these before answering?

That’s wild.

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Meanwhile, there is an actual fire burning inside my castle

Yes, a fire.

My autistic six-year-old is struggling, massively. We’re nearing the end of our summer holidays, and his nervous system is hanging on by a thread.

Over the past two days, he’s thrown meltdowns so intense that they would make The Rock’s outbursts look undercommitted.

And, continuing with our medieval theme, weapons are flying in my general direction on the daily. Today, in a rage, he scratched me across the face, cutting my nose and lip. And as I was dabbing my face in front of the bathroom mirror for the ten minutes that followed, all I could think was:

Damn it, my parents were right. It’s about time I do something about it.

Here’s their theory about the moat:

I have no reserves. No buffer. No protected space between what I can handle and what I actually take on. Basically, there’s no barrier that keeps me, Sarah, emotionally (or in my particular case, physically) safe.

Someone asks for something, I lower the drawbridge. Another person needs a favor, come on in. Plans change at the last minute? No problem. I’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, I’m sacrificing my son’s nervous system and the bill always comes straight to me.

The problem is, at some point when I was little, I decided that being a good girl meant being accommodating. That you don’t say no. You don’t make things difficult. You help when you’re asked, you keep everyone happy, and you certainly don’t put your own needs first.

Which works really well, of course. For everyone else.

For me, though? Not so much. My castle is burning, I’ve just been hit in the face with a metaphorical cannonball, and I now fully realise that I cannot keep doing this.

I can’t. I’m exhausted

We’re on day 44 of our summer break. I’ve had all of 10 minutes without my children (day or night). Add on the fact that I’ve been a physical and emotional punching bag for my son’s overwhelmed nervous system, and I’m officially DONE.

So, now what?

For a brief moment today, I considered running away and checking myself into a loony bin. At least I’d have a few days where nobody needs me or can yell at me. Honestly, at this point, it sounds like a vacation.

But then the rational part of me shouted: Stop being such a drama queen, you can figure this out.

And I will figure it out. But that means that apparently, in this next phase of my burnout recovery, I need to dig a moat.

I need to learn how to put a healthy amount of space between me and other people’s wants, needs, plans, favours and stomach bugs.

I need to learn to say, “Let me think about it.” Or even - brace yourselves, because this one’s super wild - “No.”

The problem is, I really, really don’t know how. As a chronic people-pleaser, boundaries don’t come naturally to me. Saying no makes me feel guilty. Disappointing people makes me deeply uncomfortable. And I’m very, very good at convincing myself I can handle just one more thing.

So, this is where I need your help

If you’ve been in a shambles, and have somehow managed to become a person with functioning boundaries: how did you do it?

How do you protect your energy without feeling horribly guilty about it?

How do you decide what gets across the drawbridge and what stays firmly on the other side?

Any advice is welcome - because there really isn’t much of my fortress left.

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Last month, my husband and I sat together in a quiet consultation room with a doctor and a psychologist, ready to hear the results of our son’s latest autism diagnosis.

“We’ve all come together as a team,” the doctor said gently. “And we all agree with the conclusion that your son has autism.”

I’d spent four years fighting to hear those words.

Almost instantly, I started ugly crying. (In my defence, I honestly did try to keep my composure, but I just… couldn’t.)

As soon as the diagnosis landed, I just started bawling. And I don’t look cute when I cry. Within minutes, I was sobbing so hard I was sure I was making everyone else feel incredibly awkward.

The psychologist quietly passed me a tissue, waited until I’d caught my breath, and then asked me, “What do you think you’re feeling?”

He listed a few possibilities. Relief? Grief? Validation? Sadness? Worry?

I looked at him through tears and managed one miserable word: “Everything.”

Because I really was feeling everything.

There was relief. After years of appointments, questionnaires, school meetings and constantly trying to explain what life looked like in our little world, someone else could finally see what we'd been seeing all along. A whole team of specialists (six of them, to be precise) had spent months getting to know our son. They'd spoken to his teachers, observed him in different settings, assessed him from every angle, and discussed his case together before reaching their conclusion. I felt like I’d been running forever, and I’d only just reached the finish line.

There was grief, too. Hearing the words out loud made everything feel painfully real. This wasn’t an ear infection that would clear up with antibiotics or a broken arm that would heal in six weeks. This diagnosis is something that would follow him around for the rest of his life. I found myself wondering (and worrying) what school would look like, friendships, adulthood, whether the world would be kind to him, and whether he’d always have to work that little bit harder than everyone else just to get through the day.

And then there was something I hadn’t expected to feel quite so strongly.

Validation. I hadn’t realised how much I’d been carrying until that moment. This was our third assessment (yes, our third complete assessment - from beginning to end), and twice previously we’d had to hear that he’d scored highly enough on almost everything to keep autism firmly on the table, but because he made eye contact and had remarkably strong language and social skills, they didn’t feel ‘comfortable’ confirming it. I remember walking away from that second assessment feeling completely deflated (and frankly, also a little furious).

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It’s funny how it took a burnout to finally get someone to listen.

Eventually, hitting the wall over and over had all just gotten too much, and I’d burnt out. Of course, there were a lot of different factors at play in my burnout, but advocating into the void definitely played a huge role.

I was on sick leave, struggling with health issues, working through a new antidepressant and trying to figure things out - when I had to go to our paediatrician for one of our older two. I sat in her office, feeling numb, and she worriedly asked me, “Sarah, you don’t look well, what’s going on?”

I said, “I just can’t anymore. Nobody will listen. Nobody will hear us. It’s a nightmare, every day. Hours of screaming, hours of struggling, walking on eggshells. The whole family is suffering. We need help. I can’t do this for much longer.”

That admission, that despair, somehow sparked a fire in her. As a mom of three herself, and knowing our family well enough to know I wasn’t just making things up, she pulled some strings and got us that third evaluation, and quickly. This time, we were sent to a Swiss center specialised in autism and more specifically in cases like our son’s that weren’t textbook.

To be fair though, nothing about our son’s autism is textbook.

He’s incredibly intelligent, and has always been so good at masking. He’s bright, funny, affectionate and remarkably social. He makes eye contact. He understands humour (though does NOT like sarcasm). He’ll happily chat to adults without raising an eyebrow.

But once we’d get home, the front door would close behind us, and every ounce of energy he’s been spending would come pouring out, at once. He’d start shouting “I hate you!” over and over until he was hoarse. He’d repeat “Answer me!” for what felt like hours because his brain simply couldn’t move on. He’d whack books at me, throw objects, break things. Every meltdown would leave behind bruises, scratches, or damage to something or someone inside the house, without fail.

Yet I never seemed to be able to convince the world outside of our house.

So I started filming the meltdowns - from the tiniest trigger, through to the chaos, all the way to the heap of sobbing mess that we all were at the end.

It felt awful, filming him like that. No parent wants videos like that on their phone, let alone share those videos with other people. But it was necessary.

For a long time, even our family didn’t believe us. They knew he was a little ‘quirky’ and ‘asocial’, and that he could have some specific interests and fixations, but they had no idea what was really going on behind the scenes.

When I showed them the videos, they couldn’t quite believe that was him. They were in disbelief, but somehow still unconvinced that I wasn’t the problem.

I know. But that’s the thing about masking. It’s just that: a mask people wear for the rest of the world to see.

Even now, after his diagnosis, I still hear comments like, “Nah, he doesn’t look autistic,” or “I really just think he needs firmer boundaries.”

I’ve learned to grow thicker skin over the years, but those comments honestly still sting.

Like... really, Karen? Do you honestly think we somehow skipped that obvious chapter? That after three full assessments and enough questionnaires to wallpaper my house... nobody thought to suggest firmer boundaries?

Awesome. Somebody should probably let the six specialists know that we’ve solved the puzzle. They’ll be thrilled to hear they all got it so wrong.

The thing is, I know people usually mean well (most people, though some are just going to be jerks), but comments like that don’t land in isolation. They land on top of years of me asking myself the same questions, of me doubting myself and my whole world…

Am I too soft? Am I maybe just overthinking everything? Is this all my fault? Am I a bad parent? Or am I imagining things?

You don’t spend all of that energy and effort fighting for your child without also quietly questioning yourself a thousand times along the way.

And that, reader, is why I cried so hard that day. Because after all those years of fighting friends, family, specialists and the system to recognize that our little boy was different, someone finally, FINALLY did.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, we finally had permission to stop apologising for our child, and start accepting him for the perfect little boy that he is.

Buy me a coffee!

Oops, I opened the floodgates

When I clicked ‘publish’ on my first Substack article a few weeks ago, I thought I was just telling my story. It was about how I hit rock bottom (twice).

I did it for two reasons:

1. Because writing had become my way of making sense of everything that was going on. It was therapeutic, if nothin…

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If one more person tells me to breathe in for four, hold for seven, and exhale for eight, I might actually SCREAM.

And before the breathwork enthusiasts come for me, I’m not saying it doesn’t work, period. I’m just saying it doesn’t work for me.

The whole time I’m breathing and counting, I’m thinking…

Was that three? Or four? Am I meant to be holding now?…

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I’ve been on burnout leave for the past 5 months.

It’s been a long road to recovery, and while I’m still not quite there, I’m doing so much better than I was just weeks ago.

Back in April, I was weepy, suicidal, I’d lost my overall ‘joie de vivre’ and honestly, I’d also lost all sense of direction. I was in a deep, dark …

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My best friend’s name is Kara. And for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Sarah.

I know. It sounds like the beginning of a YA book about two sisters who solve mysteries together. It’s actually not that far off, though.

We don’t solve mysteries (at least not yet), but we’re just about as close to sisters as best friends can get.

I met Kara when I moved t…

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Words are funny things.

They’re just sounds and letters arranged in a particular order, and yet some of them manage to carry entire worlds. A single word can remind us of a person we loved, a place we once called home, a lesson we never forgot, or a belief we’ve come to hold about ourselves.

And some words do the opposite. The…

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Warning: This essay contains accounts of miscarriage, surgeries, and some fairly graphic details about unholy periods.

Welcome to the club!

I got my first period when I was 13.

It was December 6th, Saint Nicholas Day (in case you’d like to mark that down in your calendars, folks).

I remember walking out of school and seeing my mom waiting for me. As soon as…

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One of the things I’ve been doing over the last few months while rebuilding myself is to take a few minutes each day (or, if I’m lazy, week) to reflect on what’s gone well, what I’ve learned, and what I’ve done disastrously wrong. I write down my thoughts in a little no…

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Our oldest daughter is almost 11 (27 days to go!).

She’s kind, mature, responsible, sensible, and generally makes good decisions (when her ADHD doesn’t get in the way).

She does well at school. She has great friends. She follows the rules (mostly). And she often even remembers things I forget. “Mom, don’t forget to take your medicine.”

Objectively speakin…

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Apparently, my name is Mom. Not Sarah - or darling - or sweetheart. Not even “sexy beast.”

Just mom.

Or more specifically:

“Mom?”

“Mommy.”

“Mooooooommy.”

“MOM!”

We’ve been on summer holidays for just under a week, and I already feel like Lois Griffin in that episode of Family Guy where Stewie spends several uninterrupted minutes repeating her name.

When I first watched it, I thought it was exaggerated for comedic effect. I now realise it was actually a parenting documentary.

My children are 10, 8, and 5 years old. Or, as my oldest daughter would very quickly point out, '“almost 11”. At this stage, I genuinely thought we’d reached a point where they could function independently (not including screen time, of course).

Turns out, that might never be my reality.

At one point today, all three children called my name simultaneously from three different rooms of the house. Ahhhhh!

At that point, I felt like one of those stretchy toys with the ridiculously long elastic arms that kids pull in opposite directions.

And here’s the thing: this wasn’t after a day of ignoring them while scrolling Instagram.

I’d just spent three hours paddle-boarding with them at the lake. We were completely screen-free. There were snacks. Fun drinks. There was music. There was sunshine. There was quality time.

They had my undivided attention for the better part of the afternoon.

So their cups should have been full. But apparently, their cups have holes in them.

So naturally, being the solutions-oriented parent that I am, I did what any exhausted millennial mother would do:

I Googled it.

According to the ‘internet experts’, there are techniques. Strategies. Systems. Entire parenting philosophies dedicated to reducing interruptions, and encouraging independence and patience.

So I decided to conduct a little parenting experiment….

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Experiment #1: The Bluey method

Like every modern parent, I first learned about the famous hand-on-arm technique from Bluey. If you’re a Bluey fan like us, you’ll know exactly which episode I’m talking about, because when I first saw it I thought: that’s genius!

The idea is beautifully simple: instead of interrupting, your child places their hand on your arm when you’re busy.

You place your hand over theirs to acknowledge them. You finish what you’re doing. Then you give them your full attention.

It’s calm, respectful, emotionally regulated - and it didn’t work one bit.

Turns out my kids have the patience of caffeinated squirrels, and managed to wait all of 20 seconds before they had to remind me that they’re still there, waiting. “Hellooo!”

The level of injustice was remarkable.

Result: 2/10. Bluey made it look much easier. They understood the assignment; they just didn’t like it.

Experiment #2: The visual timer

The internet assured me that visual timers encourage independent play.

You set the timer. Your child plays independently until it goes off. And you get five minutes to switch out the laundry and clean the cat’s toilet. Seems simple enough. I started with a small number - 15 minutes. That sounds reasonable, no?

Unfortunately, my youngest lasted approximately forty-three seconds.

“Mommy?”

There were still fourteen minutes left.

He then tried to trick me by turning the timer down to 1 minute. Clever, but unfortunately for him, I’d witnessed the crime.

So I tried again, this time repeating the instructions more clearly, placing the timer on the kitchen counter - in sight, but out of reach.

He then proceeded to stand in front of the timer and count down the minutes - out loud.

“Fourteen minutes left.”

“Thirteen minutes left.”

“Twelve minutes left.”

This was not the version of peace I was expecting.

Result: 3/10. Failed before I’d even managed to reheat my coffee for the third time.

Experiment #3: Acknowledge and defer

This one sounded a little more promising. Instead of responding immediately, you’re supposed to calmly say:

“I hear you, my love muffin. I’ll come in five minutes.”

Apparently, this teaches patience. What it actually created was a lot of anxiety around the concept of time and my unavailability.

Every request suddenly became urgent.

“Mommy, you need to come NOW.” Then my youngest went into full whining territory - which is more irritating to my nervous system than nails scratching on a chalkboard.

Of course, there was never an emergency. The crisis was usually a missing piece for a Lego creation, a bunny that wasn’t complying, or a snack-related matter. But because I wasn’t immediately available, everything suddenly felt very high stakes.

Result: 1/10. Technically unsuccessful. Emotionally draining.

Experiment #4: The love bomb

The theory here is that if you spend 15-30 minutes of completely uninterrupted, focused time with your child, they’ll feel connected and secure enough to stop seeking your attention every thirty seconds.

This one actually makes a lot of sense. Fill their cup to the brim, and then they’ll feel ready to be more independent.

Overall, it’s the one that's worked best for us.

However, the reality is that I have three children - and two of them require approximately 92% of my available bandwidth.

They’re simply wired to need more from me. More support with transitions. More help navigating big emotions. More reassurance when the world feels overwhelming or unfair.

And while I’m busy putting out fires, my middle daughter quietly waits.

She’s wonderfully independent. Neurotypical, easy-going, sociable, and generally very respectful of boundaries. The problem is that sometimes she’s too easy.

Over the years, she’s learned to accommodate. To wait her turn. To give up her one-on-one time because somebody else needs me more urgently.

And that’s the trap.

Because while you’re busy meeting the needs of the child who is struggling, it’s easy to assume the child who is coping is fine. And yes, she’s fine. She’s thriving and happy. But she still needs me too. She deserves some love-bombing also.

But I don’t always manage to give her quite her share. Because by the time I get to her, the other two are already needing more. And that’s the part that stings. Because she’s such a wonderful kid, and she deserves her love-bombing, too.

So, while I’m doing everything I can, it still never feels like it’s enough. The guilt is real. And it’s constant.

Result: 4/10. Works beautifully, but requires three versions of me.

It’s probably just bad parenting

At some point, I started wondering whether this is a neurodivergent thing, or simply bad parenting.

Is it the ADHD? The autism? The fact that social cues and boundaries don’t always come naturally?

Or is this simply what happens when children suddenly have unlimited access to their favourite person?

Because if I’m being honest, I don’t remember doing this to my parents. At least not 300 times a day.

In fact, I seem to remember being actively discouraged from interrupting adults. There was no hovering, or following my mom around from room to room. If my mom was on the phone, that was the end of the discussion. You waited, patiently, quietly.

Possibly out of respect. Possibly out of fear. Probably both.

Of course, I also recognise that my children are growing up in a very different world. Modern parenting has somehow convinced us that every feeling deserves validation, every interruption warrants a response, and every snack request requires a collaborative discussion.

Add in a healthy dose of neurodivergence, competition and children who genuinely struggle with waiting, and it’s probably no surprise that I spend half my day being summoned from multiple rooms simultaneously.

So perhaps the answer is that it’s all of the above.

Partly the neurodivergence.

Partly the modern parenting.

Partly the summer holidays.

And partly the simple fact that my children know I’ll almost always respond.

The truth is, for all my complaining, I actually love spending time with my kids, and deep down I find it special that they still need me. Because I know one day, the house will be quiet.

One day, nobody will need me to admire a drawing, inspect a bug, find a water bottle, referee an argument, or watch them do the same trick on the trampoline over and over.

And I know I’ll miss it.

Just perhaps not today.

Caffeinate this mom!

Note: This is NOT an ad. In fact, my husband, who is a doctor, vehemently objects to the fact that I see a chiropractor. He says they’re a scam. But in my search for therapies and things that worked for me and my nervous system, this has actually worked magic. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, or maybe it actually does …

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Parenting neurodivergent children has introduced me to an entire world I never evven knew existed; one of diagnoses, acronyms, therapy appointments, accommodations, specialists, and an alarming number of books with the word brain in the title.

And the learning curve was steep.

At first we were completely lost. And the jo…

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A quick note: This article is about our experience raising a child with autism. But I know meltdowns aren’t unique to autism. Many neurodivergent children (including those with ADHD, sensory processing differences, Tourette’s, dyslexia and other profiles) can experience similar periods of overwhelm and nervous system dysregulation. This is simply our fa…

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Not that bougie

I recently found myself at a Guerlain Spa in one of Switzerland’s fanciest hotels.

Even writing that sentence makes me feel more sophisticated than I actually am. I promise, I’m a little bougie, but not normally that bougie.

The truth is, the visit was an exceedingly generous gift from a dear friend, and if there’s one thing you should know…

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