Eastwind Psychotherapy

SELF-CARE SUNDAY 🤍

Parents, two things can be true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both can be true.

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

And sometimes we can say:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both can be true. 🤍

Self-Care Sunday: Forgiving the younger you

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

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the ways they’ve been moving through the world — the ways they’ve protected themselves, reacted, defended, controlled, withdrawn, accommodated, pushed people away or held on too tightly — weren’t actually coming from the wise adult self they thought was in charge.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

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

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

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

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

Compassion.

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

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

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

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

And:

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

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

I don’t want to keep doing this.

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

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

And then doing the work to make that true.

THIS!!!!

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

Consider this your official invitation to take what you need.

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

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

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

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

And yes — the chocolate is fair game.

What would you reach for first?

Men don’t need self-care.

Says who?

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

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

It might look like:

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

Talking to someone when things are getting heavy.

Taking a day off.

Getting enough sleep.

Making time for the people you love.

Doing something you enjoy without needing it to be productive.

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

You don’t have to start journaling.

You don’t need a gratitude practice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m better off on my own.”

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

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

I can have boundaries without building walls.

I can be vulnerable without abandoning myself.

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

Because the truth is, life will break our hearts.

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

And still, there are apples falling all around us.

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

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

As many apples as we can.

What if feeling guilty while you’re resting doesn’t mean you’re doing self-care wrong?

I just finished a week of vacation.

I didn’t go anywhere.
I didn’t accomplish much.
I didn’t “make the most of it.”

And I noticed some guilt.

A little voice telling me I should be doing something useful. Catching up. Getting ahead. Being productive.

Which got me thinking about how strange our relationship with rest can be.

We can be completely exhausted and desperately need a break… and then feel guilty when we actually take one.

Sometimes we’ve learned to measure our worth by how much we accomplish, how much we contribute, or how available we are to other people.

So when we stop, it can feel less like self-care and more like we're somehow failing.

Maybe the uncomfortable part isn't the rest. Maybe it's what the rest brings up.

And perhaps we don't always need to fix that guilt. Maybe we can notice it.

“Ah. There’s that voice telling me I should be doing more.”

And then choose to rest anyway.

This week, I'm reminding myself that a vacation doesn't have to be productive to be worthwhile.

And neither does a Sunday.

Do you find it easy to rest without feeling guilty? Or does your brain immediately start making a to-do list?

I'm genuinely curious about this one.

Sometimes self-care is just… picking up rocks.

These are my Newfoundland worry stones. I picked them up while walking the beach in Rocky Harbour on my recent trip to Newfoundland, and honestly, I think I could have spent the entire day doing it.

There was something almost meditative about looking for them.

Walking slowly.
Feeling the warm sun on my skin.
Listening to the ocean.
Breathing in salty air.
Running my fingers over stone after stone, noticing the differences in texture, size, shape and colour.

Some were perfectly smooth. Some were rougher. Some were tiny. Some were surprisingly heavy for their size.

And when I found one that felt just right, I put it in my pocket.

No app.
No guided meditation.
No special equipment.

Just nature, my senses and a few minutes of being completely present.

And can we talk about Newfoundland for a minute? Because on this lovely island, random individuals call me “m’ love.” At the grocery store. In a restaurant. Walking around town.

“M’ love.”

I’m wondering why the rest of Canada hasn’t adopted this practice yet. Because I have to say, being casually called “m’ love” by a complete stranger does something good for the nervous system.

Anyway… back to the rocks. I brought some of these little worry stones home, and they’re here in my office for the taking.

You can:

- Hold one during a difficult conversation or therapy session.
- Rub your thumb over the smooth surface when you feel anxious or activated.
- Keep one in your pocket as a small reminder to come back to the present.
- Hold it while taking slow breaths, noticing the weight and warmth of the stone as you breathe.
- Use it as a sensory anchor when your thoughts are racing: What does it feel like? Is it cool or warm? Smooth or textured? Heavy or light?
- Keep one beside your bed, on your desk or somewhere you tend to need a little grounding.

There’s nothing magical about the stone itself. The magic, if there is any, is in slowing down enough to notice.

Notice the texture.
Notice your breath.
Notice your body.
Notice what’s around you.
Come back to right now.

Sometimes self-care doesn’t have to be another thing we add to our already-too-long list.

Sometimes it’s just standing on a beach in the sunshine, listening to the ocean, picking up rocks.

And sometimes…

it’s being called m’ love. 🤍

In the last few weeks, I’ve been sharing how parenting and our intimate relationships have a way of introducing us to the younger parts of ourselves.

The part that wonders, “Am I important?”
The part that hears, “You’re a burden.”
The part that feels a little panic when a date is forgotten and briefly wonders, “Do I matter?”

Those parts don’t need to be shamed, silenced, or “fixed.” What they need is an adult version of me to notice. To pause. And to say:

“I know this feeling. I know where you come from. But I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

This is something I’m still practicing.

Because sometimes my first instinct is to make my partner or my adult child to prove that younger part wrong… instead of tending to it myself. (Anyone else? 🙋‍♀️)

A few ways we can care for those younger parts:

✨ Notice the feeling before reacting to the story.

✨ Offer yourself the reassurance you’re hoping someone else will give you.

✨ Share your vulnerability without making the other person responsible for healing your wounds.

✨ Approach yourself with curiosity instead of criticism.

Healing doesn’t mean those younger parts disappear. It means they don’t have to run the relationship anymore.

I’m curious as to how you tend to the younger parts of yourself when they show up. Feel free to share in the comments.

Have I ever told you one of my least favourite relationship sayings?

“If they really loved you, they would never…”

Never disappoint you.
Never trigger you.
Never forget.
Never let you down.

It sounds romantic, but it’s also a great way to stay disappointed.

Because the truth I’m learning both personally and through my work is that my partner isn’t just in a relationship with me. He’s also in a relationship with the younger parts of me that still show up when life gets hard.

The little girl who worries she’s too much. The teenager who learned to stay quiet to keep the peace. The young woman who worked overtime to earn love instead of receiving it.

And sometimes my present-day partner will say something completely reasonable and my adaptive child hears: “You’re a burden.”

Or he’ll forget an important date and a younger part of me wonders if I’m not that important.

None of that is actually about today.

It’s yesterday wearing today’s clothes.

One of the things I appreciate about Relational Life Therapy is Terry Real’s reminder that our relationship can become the place where we grow and heal. Not because our partner never disappoints us, but because disappointment becomes an invitation instead of evidence.

An invitation to ask:

“How much of this belongs to this moment and how much belongs to a younger version of me hoping someone will finally rewrite an old story?”

And yes, our partners still need to own their behaviour. Repair matters. Accountability matters. Respect matters.

But healing isn’t finding someone who never lets us down. It’s learning to care for the parts of ourselves that disappointment awakens.

Maybe our partner’s greatest gift isn’t protecting us from every painful moment. Maybe it’s loving us while we learn to comfort the younger parts of ourselves that still need reassurance.

(Although I’d really appreciate it if my partner could provide fewer “growth opportunities.” 😉)

Anyone else finding their relationship doubles as an intensive personal development program?