The Socks Story (and What They’re Still Teaching Me)

The Everyday Moments That Hold So Much

This morning, while putting away my son’s socks, I found myself unexpectedly emotional.

It’s funny how something as ordinary as socks can carry a story.

For some families, socks are just socks—bought, washed, put away, lost, replaced—without much thought. But for others, they’re part of a bigger story about nervous systems, connection, and the invisible work of helping our children feel safe in their own skin.

In our home, socks have been a thing. The wrong seam, the wrong fabric, the wrong feel—all enough to set off a wave of distress. For years, mornings began with tears, frustration, and the quiet tension that comes from two nervous systems trying to find each other again.

Over time, my body began to brace at the sight of a laundry basket. It wasn’t the socks themselves that felt hard—it was the felt memory of those mornings: the helplessness, the dysregulation, the worry about how the day would unfold.

And yet, this morning, standing in the quiet, I noticed something new. My body still remembers, yes—but now there’s also warmth, softness, gratitude. A knowing that we’ve moved through so much, together.

The Body Learns (and Unlearns)

Our nervous systems are incredible. They remember, protect, and adapt. When our kids’ systems feel unsafe—even because of something small like an itchy sock—our systems respond too. It’s an unspoken dance of connection. It’s how we were wired to survive together.

Through those years, I learned that my children’s sensitivities were also my invitations—to meet my own younger parts, to be with the pieces of me that once felt “too much” or learned to quiet their needs to stay connected. Parenting invited me to bring those parts into the room, to let them be tender and emotional alongside my kids.

This is the heart of co-regulation—the truth that regulation doesn’t come from calmness alone. It’s born from connection. From the moments when two nervous systems meet and say, “I’m here. We’re safe enough. Let’s find our way, together.”

Where This All Began—My Inside Helpers

A while back, I wrote a children’s book (well, a “rough draft” anyhow) called My Inside Helpers.

It grew out of these lived moments—the ones where therapy theory meets parenting reality. The story introduces three characters who represent parts of our nervous system:

Owl—helps us feel calm, safe, and connected (our ventral state).
Tiger—shows up when we need to protect ourselves or take action (our sympathetic energy).
Turtle—appears when things feel too overwhelming and we shut down (our dorsal collapse).

Each “helper” has a purpose. None are bad. The story invites children—and the adults who care for them—to notice which helper is present, to get curious about what that part needs, and to learn gentle ways to move between them with compassion and care.

My Inside Helpers was born from years of learning and unlearning—as a therapist, a mom, and a human trying to make sense of our beautifully complex nervous systems.

It’s been deeply inspired by the work of Dr. Stephen Porges, whose Polyvagal Theory gave us a language for understanding safety and connection; Deb Dana, whose compassionate framework helps translate that science into lived experience; and Robyn Gobbel, whose heart-forward teachings continue to guide how I bring these ideas to life with children and families.

I’ve been sitting with this manuscript for months now, wondering how to bring it into the world. As a social worker for more than a decade and now a therapist, I know how needed this kind of resource is—something that helps caregivers and kids learn together about their nervous systems, connection, and co-regulation in ways that feel warm, playful, and real.

But honestly? I’ve felt a bit lost about how to turn this heart project into a tangible resource.

The Nudge Beneath the Socks

This morning—standing there with a handful of socks—felt like a gentle nudge. A reminder to dig a little deeper, to find clarity, and to take the next small step toward sharing this work more widely.

Because My Inside Helpers isn’t just a story. It’s a love letter to families, parents, teachers, and caregivers who are doing this brave, beautiful work every day—learning to meet their kids’ needs while tending to their own.

It’s for those who’ve sat on the floor surrounded by mismatched socks and tears, wondering if they’re doing any of it right.

It’s for those who’ve discovered that healing doesn’t come from perfection, but from presence.

The Gentle Reminder

So here’s to the socks.

To the tiny moments that hold whole worlds inside them.

To the parents and caregivers who keep showing up—not perfectly, but wholeheartedly.

And to the children who keep teaching us what safety, connection, and repair really look like.

Maybe this morning was my body’s way of whispering: it’s time.

Time to bring this story—and everything it represents—into the world.

Stay tuned…

What Does “Being With” Even Mean?

“Being with.”

It’s a phrase I return to often in my own life, and something I invite into the therapy room again and again. Not because it’s easy or obvious (it isn’t), but because it matters.

For so many of us, the instinct when something painful or uncomfortable surfaces is to move away from it: fix it, explain it, outwork it, or distract ourselves until it passes. Our nervous systems are wired to protect us, and those strategies often did keep us safe at one point. The trouble is, what once worked can start to feel heavy, outdated, or clunky in this season of life.

Turning Toward Instead of Away

Being with is about gently turning toward what’s happening inside, rather than stepping over it or shutting it down. Not to analyse it or make it go away, but simply to notice and stay.

It might sound like:

• “I can feel something tightening in my chest.”

• “Ah, that makes sense you’d be here.”

• “I can be with this, even if it’s uncomfortable.”

This is what Richard Schwartz, founder of Internal Family Systems, means when he says our triggers are trailheads. Each one is an opening into the part of us that most needs care in that moment.

The Slow Work of Safety

Safety isn’t about never feeling distress again. It’s about showing our systems, little by little, that we can survive the wave without bracing so hard.

Often this begins in very small, embodied ways:

• Letting your eyes wander around the room until they land on something steady or comforting.

• Placing a hand over your heart or collarbone and noticing warmth under your palm.

• Taking one slower breath, lengthening the exhale just a touch.

• Shifting your body—standing, swaying, stretching—when you feel frozen in place.

These little practices aren’t about “fixing” anything. They’re reminders to your nervous system that you are here, and you are safe enough in this moment.

And as you repeat them, you begin to build new pathways. Less like one big transformation and more like a glacial pace of small, repeated steps: pausing long enough to notice, softening for a breath, catching the moment when perfectionism wants to take over and saying, “I see you. We don’t have to do it that way anymore.”

From Implicit to Explicit

So much of what drives us runs in the background, unspoken and unseen. The process of therapy is often about bringing those implicit patterns into the light—naming them with compassion, appreciating where they came from, and then gently interrupting them when it’s safe to do so.

For me, being with is what allows this shift. It’s not about forcing change or overriding old habits. It’s about sitting beside the parts of us that have been working so hard, offering curiosity instead of judgement, and letting them know they no longer have to carry it all.

An Attachment Lens

From an attachment perspective, this work can feel especially tender. Many of us learned early on that we had to trade pieces of our authenticity—our feelings, impulses, even needs—in order to maintain closeness with the people we depended on. Our nervous systems decided that attachment was more important than authenticity, and our parts took on protective roles to make sure we didn’t lose connection.

Being with, then, becomes a way of offering ourselves what we didn’t get back then: a steady, compassionate presence that says, “I see you. I’m not leaving.” In Internal Family Systems, Self becomes the secure base for our inner system. We begin to re-parent those younger parts, offering them the kind of attunement and safety that makes space for authenticity to emerge again.

Why This Matters

I share this not as an expert holding the answers, but as someone who is also learning to notice when I slip back into familiar grooves. I still catch myself taking the old path. And when I can pause long enough, I get to choose something different: to anchor into the steadiness of my adult self, to breathe, to repair, to try again.

That’s what being with means to me. Not being overwhelmed by what’s there, not pushing it away, but meeting it with as much curiosity and compassion as I can. And over time, those small, imperfect moments of presence add up to real, sustainable change.

Looking Ahead

I’ve been dreaming into ways of supporting this work beyond the therapy room. Because integration is medicine, I’m in the planning stages of creating resources here on my site—gentle, experiential invitations to help you weave these insights into daily life. Whether you’re between sessions or not in therapy at all right now, these practices will be designed to offer accessible ways of “being with” yourself in real time.

My hope is that these resources can become companions—steady touchstones you can return to, reminding you that change doesn’t come from force, but from small, safe steps taken again and again.

Therapist in Winnipeg Near Me? Maybe What You’re Really Asking Is This...

There’s a moment that happens quietly for many people before they reach out for therapy—not always dramatic, but undeniable. Sometimes it’s during a scroll at 2 a.m., sometimes on a walk, or at a stoplight. A simple thought rises:

“Something’s not working anymore.”

Maybe you feel disconnected from yourself or others. Maybe your body is telling you something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet. Or maybe you’re here because you Googled, “Therapist in Winnipeg near me?” and you clicked.

Whatever brought you here, I want to offer you something more than a directory listing. I want to offer a reframe.

What If the Problem Isn’t You, But the Pattern?

When we’re caught in stress, anxiety, shame, or collapse, it’s easy to believe something is wrong with us. But more often than not, what’s showing up is a pattern that once served a purpose.

That tightness in your chest? It learned to protect you when things felt out of control.

The overthinking? It tried to solve what couldn’t be spoken.

The feeling of numbness or unreality? Your body’s most brilliant effort to stay safe when safety wasn’t available.

So the question isn’t, “How do I get rid of this?”

It’s, “Can I be with this differently?”

What I’ve Learned from the Body

In this work, we don’t start by fixing. We start by noticing.

We tune into your nervous system—the part of you that senses danger or safety before you’ve had a chance to form a thought. We begin to see how your system organizes around connection, threat, and overwhelm. And we build the capacity to stay with what arises, rather than needing to escape it.

This isn’t about tools or tricks. It’s about helping your system remember what safety feels like—for you.

And from the Parts of You That Show Up

We also listen to the parts of you that have been carrying this for a long time:

The part that compares or performs

The one that disappears

The one who longs to be seen—but braces every time someone tries

Each of these parts learned how to survive. And each is welcome here. In this work, we don’t exile them. We meet them with compassion and curiosity, knowing they’ve been trying to protect something vulnerable and vital.

So What Is Therapy Here, Really?

It’s not performance.

It’s not problem-solving.

It’s not always about feeling better.

Sometimes, it’s about learning how to feel—at all.

Sometimes it’s about grieving the years your system had to work so hard.

Sometimes it’s about letting joy feel safe again.

Sometimes it’s about sitting with the part of you that wants to leave the room, and helping it feel like it can stay.

So, Yes—Therapist in Winnipeg Near You

But more importantly, someone who will sit with the complexity of your lived experience without rushing it. Someone who speaks the language of the body. Someone who believes your system is already wise—and that healing is not about changing who you are, but about helping you come back to yourself.

If you’re asking, “Is it time to try something different?”—maybe it is.

And if you’re ready, I’m here.

Arriving Here: In All My Messiness

This work has shown me that life is never clean, never neat. And as much as I wish there were a perfect, linear path to healing, there is a deep knowing that it’s never that simple. We’re all figuring it out, one step at a time, sometimes stumbling, sometimes gliding, sometimes just hanging on with whatever strength we have left. And that’s where I show up—in the mess.

This isn’t about me standing on some distant pedestal, handing down wisdom from a place of “I’ve got it all figured out.” I don’t. I’m in this with you. I’m human, too. I’ve walked through my own valleys of doubt, loss, and longing. I’ve faced the same deep, aching questions you have—“Do I belong here?” “Am I worthy of connection?” “Is there a place for me?” And yet, somehow, I’m still here. And so are you.

I’ve faced my own tough moments, the kind that felt like too much to carry. Growing up without a father left me with a quiet, lingering question: Where do I belong? That absence created a sense of disorientation, a feeling of being untethered. Even when people tried to step in and fill that role, life had a way of taking them too. Two stepfathers came and went, and with each loss, I was left wondering, Who am I, really? The question of where I fit in, where I truly belonged, stayed with me for a long time.

I see this struggle reflected in so many of your stories. The questions you bring to me aren’t just your questions—they are my questions, too. The longing for connection, the desire to feel safe, the yearning to understand yourself—these are the things that bind us. I see you. I hear you. And most importantly, I understand you.

Love and Relationships: A Constant Unlearning

I’ve also had my share of failed relationships, the kind grounded in not knowing myself, not understanding my own worth. I spent so much time looking for validation from others, from partners, from the world, but I never found it until I looked inward. It’s messy work, the kind where you shed old skin, revisit old wounds, and sometimes, just sit with the discomfort of not having all the answers. But I’ll tell you this: it’s worth it.

It took me years to understand that relationships aren’t just about connection with others—they’re about the connection with myself. I can only show up fully for someone else when I’ve learned to show up for myself. And even then, it’s not perfect. It takes patience, constant curiosity, and the willingness to keep leaning into discomfort.

That’s the thing about relationships, whether with partners, children, or ourselves—they’re dynamic. And they require our nervous systems to trust. Trust that it’s okay to lean in. To show up, imperfectly, with all the messy bits.

Parenting and the Struggle with Strength

Parenting has been another place where I’ve had to reckon with my own limits and vulnerabilities. Raising deep-feeling children, with the health scares and the uncertainties along the way, has called on parts of me I didn’t know existed. In those quiet moments of doubt, when I find myself questioning, “Am I strong enough? Am I doing enough?” I remember that it’s okay not to have it all together. There is no "perfect" way to parent. It’s a dance of learning and unlearning, a process of showing up and being present with the challenges, no matter how big or small.

There have been times when my health has wavered, and I’ve questioned whether I could keep going. But this is what I want you to hear—our vulnerability is not a sign of weakness. It’s the opposite. It’s the place where we can find our power, our strength. In our work, we find that healing doesn’t always come from fixing or doing things right. It comes from being seen, from being heard, from just being together in this space. Even when things feel difficult, even when the ground feels unsteady.

How I Show Up in This Work

In my therapy room, there is no such thing as a perfect process, and there is no “one-size-fits-all.” I don’t come at this work from a place of being an expert, because I’m not. I’m someone who’s walked the path, someone who’s gotten lost and found my way again. Someone who’s felt broken and learned/is learning to heal.

Together, we’ll explore the layers of your story, and I’ll be there, holding space for you to do the deep work—whether it’s learning to trust your body again, finding the courage to show up in relationships, or simply figuring out who you are when the world is too loud. We won’t rush through it. I’ll sit with you in the discomfort, the uncertainty, and the mess. Because that’s where the transformation happens.

I use many tools in our work—tools that help us understand what your nervous system is telling you, what your body has learned to hold, and what parts of you are asking for attention. There is power in noticing, in sitting with what is. Sometimes it’s as simple as slowing down, breathing deeply, and letting your system know it’s okay to rest. Sometimes it’s about revisiting old stories, untangling what doesn’t serve you anymore, and rewriting them, together. There is no timeline, no rush. This is your journey, not a race.

Why This Work Is for You

This isn’t a quick-fix space. This is for you if you’re ready to be with yourself in the mess, to confront what’s uncomfortable, and to find healing in the truth of your experience.

As we walk this path together, you might start to feel a sense of power returning—power that may have felt lost or buried beneath years of stories and survival. In the quiet moments, when we allow ourselves to be truly seen, we might discover strengths we never realized we had. It’s in this space of openness and connection that we can begin to reconnect with parts of ourselves that have been waiting to be recognized.

So if you’re ready to explore, to lean in, and to start feeling that power again—no matter how messy, no matter how unsteady—it would be an honour to walk beside you. Let’s make space for it, together.

Nourishing Our Nervous Systems

In our fast-paced world, it’s easy to lose touch with what our bodies and minds truly need. We rush through life, often ignoring the gentle nudges from within that remind us to slow down and tune in. But what if we paused? What if we let ourselves be nourished—not in a fleeting, surface-level way, but in a deep, soul-satisfying way? This is an invitation to remember what it feels like to truly care for ourselves, and in turn, for others.

The Body Knows Our bodies hold so much wisdom. They’re constantly communicating with us, nudging us toward balance, rest, or connection. Embodiment is about listening to those cues, about being present in our bodies instead of living in our heads or on autopilot. It’s noticing the tension in our shoulders, the flutter of excitement in our chest, or the way our breath feels when we’re calm. These small moments of awareness are gifts—they remind us that we are alive and that our bodies are allies, not obstacles.

Connection Is Magic As humans, we’re wired for connection. It’s how we thrive, how we regulate, and how we heal. Co-regulation—that quiet, almost imperceptible process of syncing up with another person’s calm—is a superpower. Whether it’s a steady voice, a warm embrace, or simply sitting with someone in their moment of need, these connections anchor us. You don’t need to be perfect to offer this kind of presence; you just need to be there, fully. And in showing up for others, you’ll find your own nervous system settling too.

Food: A Source of Comfort and Connection Nourishment isn’t just about what we eat, but food plays a starring role. It’s a form of love, care, and grounding. Whether it’s a big bowl of warm, buttery mashed potatoes (IYKYK) or a meal shared with someone you love, food connects us to ourselves and to each other. So, let go of the guilt and focus on what truly nourishes—what makes you feel whole and alive.

Grounding: Finding Your Anchor Life can be overwhelming, but grounding practices offer a way to steady ourselves. They don’t need to be elaborate; often, the simplest ones are the most effective. Try placing your feet firmly on the ground and noticing how it feels. Take a deep breath and let it fill you up. Or step outside and let nature remind you of its rhythm. These small, intentional acts bring us back to the present, where we can begin again.

Rest Is Essential In a culture that glorifies productivity, rest is often dismissed as indulgent. But it’s anything but. Rest is where we heal, recharge, and reconnect with ourselves. It’s not just about sleep—though that’s important—but about creating moments of stillness in your day. Maybe it’s sitting quietly with a book, listening to the birds outside, or simply giving yourself permission to do nothing. Rest isn’t lazy; it’s life-giving.

Movement That Feels Good Movement isn’t a chore—it’s a way of celebrating what our bodies can do. It doesn’t need to look a certain way. Dance in your living room, stretch before bed, or take a walk without a destination in mind. The key is to move in ways that feel good, that remind you of your body’s capacity for joy and resilience.

Your Nourishment Toolkit Everyone needs a toolkit—a collection of practices, habits, and comforts that support you when life feels heavy. What brings you back to yourself? Maybe it’s a favourite song, a quiet cup of tea, or time spent with a close friend. Gather these things, hold them close, and turn to them often. They’re your lifelines in a busy world.

The Practice of Nourishment Nourishing ourselves isn’t a one-time event; it’s a practice, a commitment to showing up for ourselves with care and compassion. And when we do, we create a ripple effect. We become more present, more grounded, and more available to the people around us. It’s not about doing it perfectly; it’s about doing it with intention. So take a breath, take a step, and trust that you are worth the effort.

Navigating Overwhelm: Why Listening to Our Body Is More Powerful Than Forcing Calm

A parent I’ve been working with recently shared a story during one of our therapy sessions that really highlights something so fundamental about how we experience stress and overwhelm—not by forcing calm but by learning to listen to the nervous system and what it’s asking for.

She found herself in the thick of it, as so many parents do, with demands stacking up, kids needing attention, the usual chaos of life pulling her in all directions. In the past, her default would have been to either snap or completely shut down—her fight-or-flight response taking the reins, pushing her to react or retreat. But this time, something different happened. Instead of pushing herself to stay calm, she listened to the energy building in her body, knowing that it wasn’t about remaining composed, but about finding a way to honour the stress she was feeling.

Here’s the thing about the fight-or-flight state—it’s not just about reacting emotionally. It’s a mobilizing state. When we’re in fight or flight, our body is filled with mobilizing energy. It's like our system gets pumped full of fuel, ready to move, ready to act. Our heart rate increases, our muscles tense, everything gets geared toward doing something—whether that’s running away from a perceived threat (flight) or standing our ground and confronting it head-on (fight). This is why it’s so important to understand that when you’re in that state, it’s not helpful to try and force calm or stillness. The energy has to go somewhere. It’s not about calming down in that moment; it’s about finding ways to release that energy. Breathwork, movement, grounding—these are all ways we can help the nervous system discharge that pent-up energy in a healthy, supportive way.

But what really complicates things is when we find ourselves in a blended state—like the freeze state. Freeze is such a tricky one because it’s this paradoxical mix of two self-protection responses that leaves us feeling completely stuck. It’s part of the shutdown response, where the body feels immobilized, almost like it’s shutting down to protect itself. But at the same time, there’s a part of us that’s still mobilized—a part of us that has that fight-or-flight energy, but it’s trapped. It’s like having the engine revving, but the brakes slammed on at the same time. You’re flooded with all this energy, but you can’t move it. So, you’re stuck, both mobilized and immobilized, all at once.

And that stuckness can be maddening. You’re feeling all the tension and urgency of fight or flight, but your body is also holding you back, almost like it’s frozen in place. In this blended state, the challenge isn’t just about getting out of overwhelm—it’s about learning how to move through both parts of the experience. It’s why someone in a freeze state might feel so agitated yet paralyzed, stuck in the discomfort of wanting to act but unable to. And it’s why the tools that help us move through freeze look different than what we might use for other states. We need to both acknowledge the stuckness and find gentle ways to mobilize ourselves again, without adding more pressure or judgment.

What I loved about this client’s story is how she allowed herself to recognize which state she was in without trying to immediately fix or control it. She felt the mobilizing energy in her body—the rush of stress—and knew that her nervous system was calling for movement, for release. She didn’t tell herself to calm down or suppress the experience. Instead, she used her breath to anchor herself just enough to connect with her partner and co-regulate. This wasn’t about erasing the stress or forcing herself to be calm. It was about letting that mobilizing energy move through her in a way that felt manageable, giving herself the space to come back to a place of connection and safety.

This is where the real work lies—not in striving to avoid these states or stay perfectly regulated all the time, but in learning to respond to our nervous system with compassion and awareness. We aren’t meant to always be calm. Stress is inevitable, and our nervous system is built to handle it. What matters is how we move through it—how we allow that mobilizing energy to be released in a way that feels safe, and how we respect the times when we’re stuck in that blended state, finding gentle ways to coax ourselves out of that stuckness.

It’s about learning to be with ourselves in those moments of overwhelm, not by pushing through or shutting down, but by recognizing the body’s signals, honouring the state we’re in, and offering ourselves the right tools to metabolize that stress energy. And when we do this—when we really listen to what our body is telling us—we give ourselves the opportunity to find our way back to balance, not by forcing it, but by allowing it to happen naturally.

Understanding Sensory Seeking Behaviour

One of the most profound aspects of my work as a therapist has been the privilege of witnessing families navigate the complexities of raising neurodivergent children. Over the past 13 years, I’ve had the opportunity to sit alongside caregivers, children, and entire family systems as they find their way through unique challenges and moments of deep connection. It’s humbling work, really. Time and again, I’ve seen caregivers striving to understand their children—particularly when it comes to things like sensory processing, which can be such a puzzling and overwhelming part of the parenting journey.

One topic that comes up frequently in my practice is sensory-seeking behaviour. For many neurodivergent children (and grownups), their need for sensory input seems endless—whether it’s constant movement, touching, making noise, or seeking intense visual or tactile experiences. These behaviours can be confusing, sometimes frustrating, but they’re not just “acting out.” They’re ways in which these children are engaging with the world, finding their balance, and expressing what they need.

What is Sensory Seeking?

Sensory-seeking behaviour happens when a child craves more sensory input than their environment naturally provides. These children are constantly in search of extra stimulation—whether through touch, movement, sound, or sight—because their sensory systems don’t seem to register input as strongly as others might. For many kids, jumping, spinning, fidgeting, or making loud noises is their way of feeling more at home in their bodies and surroundings.

As a caregiver, it’s natural to feel overwhelmed by this need for constant input. I often sit with parents who are exhausted, worried, or simply bewildered by their child’s behaviour. But once we start exploring sensory seeking together, we begin to see that these behaviours are not something to “fix” or stop; rather, they’re ways for the child to manage how they’re experiencing the world (creating some safety for themselves).

Supporting Your Sensory Seeker

Supporting a sensory seeker doesn’t mean trying to curb or control their need for input—it’s about creating environments and routines that offer them what they need. This can feel like a daunting task at first, but with time, it often becomes second nature. Here are some thoughts I’ve gathered from sitting with families who’ve worked through this together:

1. Curating a Sensory Menu

One of the best ways I’ve seen caregivers support their children is by creating an intentional “sensory menu.” This is a set of sensory-rich activities that you can offer throughout the day to give your child the input they need. Think of it like a menu with different options—some more stimulating, others more soothing—that can be chosen depending on what your child needs in that moment.

A sensory menu might include activities like:

Jumping on a trampoline or bouncing on a therapy ball

Playing with textured materials like kinetic sand or slime

Swinging in a sensory swing

Using weighted blankets or offering deep-pressure activities (like firm hugs)

It’s about having these sensory options available and offering them regularly. You might notice that your child benefits from certain activities more at specific times of day—after school, before meals, or during transitions—and by curating a menu of these experiences, you can help meet their needs in a thoughtful way.

2. Create Opportunities for Movement and Exploration

I’ve noticed that sensory seekers thrive when they’re given the freedom to move and explore in ways that feel good to them. Often, caregivers express frustration when their child can’t sit still during meals or homework (or our sessions), but offering movement breaks or fidget tools can be a game-changer.

For example, during seated tasks like homework or mealtime, consider allowing your child to use a therapy ball or fidget toy. Offering frequent movement breaks, such as a few minutes of running, jumping, or spinning, can also help them feel more engaged in what they are doing.

3. Balancing Sensory Input

While sensory seekers crave more stimulation, it’s also important to offer ways to bring them back to a quieter, more settled state when they’ve had enough. I’ve often talked with caregivers about the need to balance high-energy, stimulating activities with more grounding ones. Otherwise, sensory seeking can sometimes lead to overstimulation, making it hard for the child to transition to quieter tasks.

Simple activities like gentle rocking, deep-pressure (through a weighted blanket or firm squeezes), or creating a peaceful space with soft lighting can help ease the sensory overload after periods of intense stimulation. These moments are a way for the child to pause, in their own way, before diving back into the sensory-rich world.

4. Observe and Learn from Your Child

I’ve learned that, as caregivers, we become the greatest students of our children. Each child has their own unique sensory profile, and by paying close attention to their behaviours, we start to see patterns. When does your child seem to seek more input? Is it after school, during meals, or when they’re transitioning between activities?

One thing I’ve witnessed in many families (mine included) is how much shifts once we begin to observe these patterns closely. It’s less about reacting in the moment and more about anticipating our child’s needs before they become overwhelmed.

5. Using Sensory Tools

There are many sensory tools that can help your child engage with the world without becoming too overwhelmed. I’ve seen children thrive with fidget toys, chewable necklaces, or noise-cancelling headphones that allow them to navigate their day with a bit more comfort.

These tools are small adjustments, but they can make everyday situations—like going to the store or sitting through a class—much more manageable. It’s about finding what works for your child and offering them choices that help them feel more at ease.

6. Empowering Your Child

As I’ve watched children grow, I’ve seen how empowering it can be when they start to recognize their own sensory needs. I’ve sat with families where children gradually learn to ask for a sensory break or know when they need to spin, jump, or fidget. This awareness doesn’t happen overnight, but it’s incredible to see when it does.

Offering choices and helping your child understand what helps them can build a sense of self-awareness that they’ll carry with them. It’s about giving them the tools to meet their own needs as they grow.

Final Thoughts

There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to supporting a sensory seeker. I’ve had the privilege of witnessing so many families create beautiful, flexible environments that reflect their child’s unique needs. It takes time, patience, and a lot of trial and error, but with observation and understanding, you can help your child navigate the world in a way that feels good to them.

I’m continuously in awe of the caregivers I’ve worked with—how they show up for their children and the deep, often quiet, dedication they bring to the everyday work of raising their kiddos. It’s a humbling process to witness, and I feel grateful to be a part of these journeys in whatever way I can.