Author name: ericaevans

Sleep Deprivation, Chronic Illness, and Early Parenthood

Chronic Illness, Infant Mental Health, Infant Sleep, Nurtured Parenting, Parental Brain, Parenthood, Parenting, Postpartum, Uncategorized / / 6 minutes of reading

Before I had a child, sleep was non-negotiable for me. I needed a minimum of 7 hours to function — really closer to 7.5 to 8. Under 7 and it was not pretty. Under 6 and I genuinely could not function. This really worried me—how would I be able to respond in a way that was aligned with my values for care and connection to my baby, day or night, if I was not getting my usual sleep? As someone with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, MCAS, POTS, and PMDD, I had managed my body carefully around that need so that I could be functional for years.

Long before I had a kid, a friend talked about early parenting exhaustion in a way that implied without meaning to that whatever I was already living with from my chronic illness was no match for the exhaustion from sleep deprivation of new parenthood. I took a little offense to that, and I filed it away as something I’d judge for myself if and when the time came.

My assessment when I finally got to experience it for myself: they’re both crappy, but they’re different.

Chronic illness fatigue for me is the kind of tired where there is no amount of rest that will touch it. You sleep and you’re still tired. Your body doesn’t recover. New parent exhaustion for me was different. If I could get more sleep, I would feel less tired.

Identifying that difference was important to me. It didn’t make new parent exhaustion easy. But it meant I was dealing with a different problem than the one I’d been managing for years, which meant it could be approached differently.

On becoming a napper

I’d never really been a napper, instead a full unbroken night of sleep was how I got my rest. In early parenthood, somehow that changed. I found myself napping during the day (actually sleeping when the baby slept!) which I had assumed would be impossible for me. And, over 24 hours the rest added up. I relished those daytime naps.

Could it have been the parental brain changes that come with birth and bonding? The hormones of lactation? The suppression of ovarian hormones that happens during breastfeeding and how that was impacting my chronic illnesses? Just so exhausted from broken sleep at night that my body relented and I could nap during the day? Probably some combination of all of it. Something shifted in what my body was capable of. In fact, I was able to respond to my baby with care and connection even with unbroken nighttime sleep.

I eventually learned the neuroscience of how the parental brain changes, and knowing this can make a big difference (especially for disabled and chronically ill people who are worried about sleep): the parental brain actually changes to support your capacity to respond to your baby. The brain is most plastic during pregnancy through the first year postpartum and we can work with that plasticity to support the parental brain.

How we designed our sleep

We also didn’t approach nighttime sleep the way mainstream new parenthood in this country assumes you will.

Safe bedsharing, done well with current safety guidelines, can mean more sleep for everyone while providing the oxytocin and connection that support both your stress system and your baby’s. For disabled and chronically ill parents especially, even if you never plan to bedshare, it’s absolutely worth understanding this option exists and the evidence behind it, and how to do it. (I always say the best time to learn how to safely bedshare is before you need it rather than at 3am when you’re sleep deprived, desperate, and more likely to make unsafe choices).

Here’s what our sleep setup actually looked like:

In the beginning, we started with a bedside cosleeper bassinet in our bedroom right up against the bed. When I switched to exclusive pumping, we divided the night. I took the first half to sleep since I had to wake to pump anyway in the middle of the night, my partner took the second half for uninterrupted sleep. At that point we moved the bassinet to another room where the person on call slept on a futon next to the cosleeper. Each of us got some uninterrupted sleep every night. We then moved to a floor bed in that other room and started bedsharing, and it was at this point we all actually started getting some real sleep.

Source: The Beyond Sleep Training Project

Eventually we converted our up to that point unused crib into a sidecar cot right up against our bed (see image to the right for more information from The Beyond Sleep Training Project) and all moved back into the bedroom together: bedsharing with our baby in our bed and using the sidecar cot right up against our bed when needed. Over the years, the amount of time our child spent in our bed versus the sidecar cot has shifted and now at almost 3 years old, most of the night our kiddo is in the sidecar cot, joining us in bed usually somewhere between 3 and 5am (typically after a middle of the night pee in the potty).

We hadn’t initially planned on bedsharing. But I’m so grateful that we quickly learned how to do it safely because while we had problem-solved a way to each get some uninterrupted sleep every night, bedsharing allowed us all the ability to get better sleep together. In a future post I will share more about why better sleep is not the only reason to bedshare either (though it is a great one!).

We were still more tired than before we had a baby, but not as tired as we were before we came up with this solution (because as we know, becoming a parent means choosing to change). We designed it around what we needed, and all of us got more rest.

If I had to do it again, I’d start with the sidecar cot bedsharing setup from the beginning. Littler Sparklers has a great resource on realistic expectations for infant and toddler sleep and preparing to bedshare.

What I’d want you to know

If you’re a disabled, chronically ill, or neurodivergent person who is worried about sleep, your body may surprise you. Mine did, in ways I can’t fully explain and didn’t expect.

You will still be tired. And the tired you’re imagining right now, from the outside, may feel different once you’re actually in it because your brain will be different, and because you can design your sleep situation (safely) rather than defaulting to whatever the mainstream version assumes.

Source: LittleSparklers.org

Designing-differently is what we’ve been doing our whole lives as disabled, chronically ill, and neurodivergent people. It’s also what I help people do in Body Compass™: Path to Parenthood: building a real plan around your actual capacity, before the baby arrives, so you’re not figuring it out at 3am.

If you’re preparing for a baby and want a starting point that was built for folks with bodies and brains outside the status quo, The Baby Registry Nobody Made For Us is a free guide with a whole section on sleep setups. What actually helps when you’re managing a chronic illness or disability alongside a newborn.

Get the free guide

And if you’re looking for support across the whole path (conception, pregnancy, and early parenthood) that’s what Body Compass™: Path to Parenthood is for.

Learn more and apply

What the Dominant Narrative Misses

Birth Control, Body Literacy, Chronic Illness, COVID-19, Cycle Health, Disability Justice, Fertility Awareness, Infant Mental Health, Nurtured Parenting, Parental Brain, Parenthood, Parenting, Uncategorized / / 5 minutes of reading

What do disability, body literacy, fertility awareness, pregnancy, parenting, attachment, public health, and caregiving have in common?

I’ve been trying to articulate the answer to this question for myself for a while now. These fields can seem completely unrelated on the surface, and they’re made harder to see clearly by the layers of loud political ideology that get wrapped around each of them. I worry sometimes that people encounter my work in fertility awareness or responsive caregiving and think, “that’s some tradwife content I am not interested in.” I get it! These bodies of knowledge have often been co-opted, re-packaged, and handed back to us inside a political story that a lot of us don’t agree with and don’t recognize ourselves in. This often prevents people from accessing or practicing what could be providing a real benefit to them, or prevents them from seeing the thread underneath all of these that I think ties them together: care and interdependence.

Disability justice centers care and interdependence. Attachment science centers care and interdependence. When you strip away the dogmatic ideological packaging from body literacy, parenthood, responsive caregiving, and public health, each of these takes human needs seriously and begins with the reality of human bodies and relationships rather than what productivity and capitalism demand.

Not one of us came into this world without needing care. It’s literally how our species has evolved to survive and thrive and that need doesn’t disappear. We all begin as beings who rely completely on others for survival, and most of us will arrive back there at one or more points in our lives. At illness, disability, chronic illness, childhood, elderhood, grief, postpartum, parenthood, crisis, mental illness: all of these require care and interdependence.

Public health makes this explicit in a way the other fields sometimes leave implicit: our actions affect each other. A mask, a vaccine, staying home when you’re sick aren’t just individual choices. They exist inside a web of relationships. The people who have made this most visible are disabled people and immunocompromised people. We’ve had to articulate, loudly and repeatedly, that our safety depends on the choices of people who are not us.

Disability communities often reach a point, especially for people who become disabled after living as nondisabled, where they realize that worth does not equal productivity. You are worthy as you are. Rest is not something you earn. It’s a biological need (we are not machines!). In fact, disability justice calls out these exact principles: interdependence, recognizing the wholeness of each person, and anticapitalist politics.

Parental brain science shows that becoming a parent literally changes the brain. It’s pruned and reorganized in ways that increase attention to relationships, caregiving, emotional attunement, and social connection. The parental brain is optimized for caregiving, not maximum output. (Oh hello! Now it makes complete sense why my brain felt so completely different when I came back to work from parental leave.) Meanwhile, the culture around new parents says: bounce back. Get the baby sleeping independently. Get back to work. Get productive again. The parental brain is in some ways a biological rebellion against those capitalist demands.

Attachment science tells us that a securely attached child doesn’t develop through being efficiently managed. Secure attachment is built through thousands of moments of connection, co-regulation, responsiveness, repair, and presence. None of those are easily measured nor show up in any productivity metrics. And yet they’re among the most important things we as human beings can do or receive. Holding a crying baby, sitting with a dying elder, listening to a friend, recovering from or living with illness, resting, building trust, co-regulating are, by and large, in capitalist culture, treated as interruptions to life rather than as life itself.

None of us are units of productivity. Not babies, not children, not disabled people, not elders. Heck, not even nondisabled adults, no matter how hard everyone pretends otherwise! Everyone thinks they’re invincible until they’re not.

The fertility awareness method (FAM) gives people accurate self-knowledge to make decisions about their reproductive lives, including the decision to end a pregnancy. Knowing your body well enough to detect a pregnancy at five weeks, before a six-week abortion ban kicks in, can be life-saving knowledge. FAM connects directly to three of the four tenets of reproductive justice: the right to have children, the right not to have children, and the right to bodily autonomy and sexual freedom.

FAM also shows us that our bodies respond visibly to how we’re living. Whether we’re sleeping, eating, under stress, being nurtured or ground down by hustle culture, it all shows up in our cycles. FAM is a monthly report card on our own wellbeing. Using FAM we can learn to read what our cycles have to show us about our own well-being and see in real-time how living in a care-centered culture (where we are nourished, rested, connected, etc) vs a productivity-centered culture (where we are burnt out, etc) affect our reproductive health.

Disability and parenthood are both often viewed through a deficit lens: how will you manage, how will you keep up, how will you stay productive enough? (Fuck that.) What I think disability and parenthood reveal is that as human beings we are relational, that we move through seasons, that capacity fluctuates, that care is non-negotiable, that there is wisdom in slowing down.

When I sit with care-centered values it’s obvious to me that disability justice, parental brain science, responsive caregiving, reproductive justice, public health, and body literacy all draw from the same well. No wonder they seem connected to me! They arrive at similar conclusions centering care and interdependence from different starting points. These fields of study are not some tradwife bullshit (though aspects of these fields get co-opted and distorted with dogma from the right regularly). They’re all asking a version of the same question:

“What if we organized our lives around what human beings need, rather than around what makes human beings most productive?”

The fourth tenet of reproductive justice, “Safe and supportive environments for families,” is one part of the answer. A girl can dream.

The Big Blank

Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Disability Justice, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Nurtured Parenting, Parental Brain, Parenthood, Parenting / / 4 minutes of reading

When we started seriously thinking about trying to conceive, I couldn’t picture it.

Logically, it made no sense to me. I had carefully and very deliberately built a life around my capacity and needs as a disabled, chronically ill, neurodivergent person. And having a baby meant blowing that all up in the most unpredictable way possible. Every time I tried to think it through, I kept arriving at the same conclusion: “lol, why?”

Erica with long brown hair stands at the edge of a rural road, arms crossed, looking toward the camera. A bare-branched tree is behind her and a lake view stretches in the distance. Early spring.
Photo from 2022 on a walk near where we were living after a particularly bad day, earlier in the year before we started trying to conceive.

The wanting wasn’t something I could access easily or directly because the immediate changes to my life seemed to contradict what I had up to that point learned I needed to take care of my body. What finally helped was thinking way ahead into the future and I asked myself, “At 70, would I regret not doing this?” And the answer was a clear yes.

People told me it was worth it. That they couldn’t explain it but it was true. My brain wanted to understand that for myself, wanted to try the identity on, take it for a spin, see how it felt, but it just couldn’t. My brain hadn’t been changed by parenthood yet the way theirs had. I couldn’t make the decision from inside of the experience. I had to trust that they were right, and look far enough ahead into the future to find out what I actually wanted.

What I also couldn’t picture was what parenting would look like in my actual body. Like on a high pain day, when my SI joints make walking impossible, when my capacity is already stretched before the baby has even arrived. Every image I had of pregnancy and parenthood was for someone else’s life—someone without hEDS, without MCAS, POTS, PMDD, without all of it.

I kept coming back to the same big blank.

I’ve been thinking about that big blank a lot lately, and about the fear underneath it. Not just the surface fears (the sleep deprivation, the logistics, the medical system), but the one that lives underneath all of them:

“What if becoming a parent requires me to become someone my body can’t sustain? What if the life I’ve so carefully built around my capacity, the routines, the pacing, the hard-won balance, just doesn’t have room for a baby?”

That fear makes complete sense, because something DOES change. The expectation that everything stays the same when you become a parent is a falsehood, for everyone, disabled or not. Before we started trying to conceive, James and I did a parenting visioning and values exercise together (because we like to nerd out like that) and landed on something we could return to and connect to. A north star.

“We are choosing to change, and remain open to the unfolding of the unknown.“

We knew we couldn’t possibly know everything. We knew we were walking through a portal from which there would be no return, and we didn’t want resentment to show up later. We wanted a reminder that we chose this, knowingly, even when it’s hard. A reminder of our values for change, adaptability, curiosity, and openness.

Our little north star/mantra/whatever-you-want-to call-it doesn’t cure the fear. It obviously still comes up. But, it has given us a sense of agency rooted in our values for this huge life change that makes the fear easier to sit with.

If that fear lives in you too, whether you’re already a parent or pregnant, thinking about trying, or just starting to let yourself wonder if it’s possible, tell me where you are in the comments.

If you’re navigating the path to parenthood as a disabled, chronically ill, or neurodivergent person and you’re tired of piecing things together from content that was never designed for you…I made something for you.

The Baby Registry Nobody Made For Us is a free guide built from real disabled parenting community knowledge. It’s a starting point for preparing for a baby in a way that actually accounts for your body and your needs.

Get the free guide here.

And if you’re looking for more than a guide, for an actual plan, built around your specific needs, with someone who has walked this path that’s what Body Compass™: Path to Parenthood is for.

Learn more and apply.

Adaptation is a Disability Practice

Chronic Illness, COVID-19, Disability Justice, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Parenthood / / 5 minutes of reading

What disabled communities can teach us about surviving transformation—from parenting to pandemics to climate collapse

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Yale Global Health Review article written by 19-year-old Violet Affleck, “A Chronically Ill Earth: COVID Organizing as a Model Climate Response in Los Angeles,” and I keep connecting it to two books:

All three treat Disability Justice as a guide for responding to large-scale crises. They show how the adaptations developed within disabled communities are not only ways of surviving, but practical examples of how communities reorganize under pressure. The knowledge and skills within disabled communities matter for navigating fascism, climate change, pandemics, and other disruptions.

We saw this recently during the LA wildfires. It wasn’t the government stepping in to protect people from hazardous smoke; the mayor was actually attempting to ban masks. A group of chronically ill and disabled organizers, MaskBloc LA, quickly mobilized and distributed N95 masks to the community. In moments like this, the lived experience of disabled people often leads to faster, more practical responses.

Becoming a parent is another kind of transformation—sudden, disorienting, full of new limitations, and sometimes crisis-like. Sleep becomes fragmented. Your previously structured schedule dissolves into what I call “the new baby vortex.” Your body, time, and energy no longer feel fully your own. When I was considering becoming a parent as a chronically ill and disabled person, I felt unsure and uncertain. I had not seen positive examples of disabled parenting in media. Was it even possible? It had to be—but I found very few representations until a disabled peer counselor pointed me to a corner of the internet where disabled parents shared their experiences.

That’s where I first found Jessica Slice, the author of Unfit Parent. At the time she was looking for folks to interview about the decision to become pregnant or their experiences of pregnancy. We emailed and scheduled a call. When the day came, Jessica had to reschedule because someone in her family had COVID—limitations! unpredictability! Parenting! Ultimately, it was the people in that disabled parenting group—and an essay by Rebekah Taussig in the anthology We’ve Got This: Essays by Disabled Parents—that shifted my perspective. Taussig’s words stayed with me through our entire family-planning journey. They helped me see that my disability hadn’t left me unprepared. In many ways, it had trained me.

She writes:

“It turns out my disabled body has actually given me the precise training I need to be Otto’s mum. With time, parenting has started to feel more and more like hearing a cover of a song I’ve known by heart since I was a child.

My body and my baby are both unpredictable and take turns derailing our plans. They flourish when we lean into flexibility, imagination, and adaptability. They require patience and endurance, attention and care — they thrive when we lean into interdependence. They inspire innovation and new ways of being together; they nurture a tender, sturdy intimacy in our family; they are bewildering, magical, and demanding.“

In contrast, I’ve seen many nondisabled people struggle with the transition to parenthood—and with living through an ongoing pandemic. Often the difficulty isn’t only the disruption itself. It’s the reluctance to shift, to let go of the expectation that life should return to how things were.

But adaptation isn’t about return. It’s not about “getting back to normal” or pretending it’s still 2019. A return is not an adaptation. A return is a movement backward: a reinstatement of a prior state, often idealized as simpler or more desirable. It assumes that the past was working (working for whom I would question). But, an adaptation is a modification or evolution in response to new conditions. It’s about resilience, creativity, and change (ask me another time to talk about my complicated relationship with the concept of resilience). Adaptation acknowledges that the landscape around us has shifted and invites us to shift with it. It doesn’t ask us to go back—though grieving the before-times is valid and often necessary. It dares us to move forward differently, more fit for the world we’re in now.

This is where disabled communities offer invaluable guidance. We have been practicing adaptation for a long time. We are masters of modification, flexibility, and resourcefulness. We learn how to live with unpredictability, how to build access where none existed, and how to thrive in interdependence and community care. During my coach training, one of my mentors often said that every client is a whole, creative, resourceful person with a lifetime of accumulated wisdom. I’ve seen that wisdom most clearly among my disabled and chronically ill peers.

Each of these three works—Violet Affleck’s article, Jessica Slice’s memoir, and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha’s essays—also points to the ableist assumptions, norms, and systems that marginalize disabled people. Public health responses to COVID-19 sidelined disabled people’s needs. Popular visions of the future (especially in science fiction and tech culture) often leave disabled people out entirely. And positive portrayals of parenting in media rarely include disabled parents. When we erase disability from our imagined futures and ignore it in our present, we erase wisdom, joy, and expertise in living under crisis and change.

From parenting to pandemics, disabled communities have been modeling adaptation for decades, building better ways of being, not just surviving. Much of that work centers on community care, flexibility, and collective thriving—approaches that are becoming increasingly necessary. These practices and better ways of being matter even more now. Within disabled communities, conversations about surviving climate collapse are often blunt and practical. We already know what it means to navigate inaccessible systems, respond to crisis through mutual aid, and reimagine care beyond institutions. Disabled people know that in most crises we are the first to be abandoned. Or, as Anthony Fauci put it when discussing COVID-19 in 2023, “the vulnerable will fall by the wayside.”

That kind of careless, eugenicist thinking harms everyone. Disabled communities offer more than survival strategies. They show how a society might organize itself around interdependence, access, and adaptation in the face of ongoing environmental and social disruption.

Rewriting the Script: Introducing BodyTalk! A Preteen Period Party

Body Literacy, Body Literacy Academy, Cycle Health / / 3 minutes of reading

Ever wished you had a better understanding of your body when you were younger? Wish you could give your preteen the gift of body literacy you wish you’d had? Feel nervous about how to do it, but you know it’s important?! If you’re in the Greater Ithaca area, now’s your chance! Fellow FAM Educator Darcie Black and I are hosting BodyTalk! A Preteen Period Party, and we’d love for you and your preteen to join us. Registration closes in TWO days, and there are still a few spots left!

Let’s talk about why this workshop exists and why it matters so much to me.

When I was a preteen, my mom left a puberty book on my bed—it might have been The Care and Keeping of You, but honestly, I can’t remember. The moment I saw it, I was mortified. I flung it into the furthest corner of my room, treating it like it carried a contagious disease called “Puberty.” At some point, curiosity won, and I thumbed through its pages, but the embarrassment lingered.

10-11 year old me in the late nineties!

Then there was the infamous “Mother/Daughter Night” in 5th grade. The school nurse gave a talk in the elementary school cafetorium, about puberty and the menstrual cycle. I was even MORE mortified. Sitting in that folding chair, staring at the floor, with my hair acting as makeshift blinders, among rows of other preteens, our parents in rows behind us, I wanted to disappear. Why was I so resistant? Maybe it was societal messaging about bodies and puberty being shameful. Maybe it was the clandestine “after-dark” setting that made the whole thing feel like a secret we weren’t supposed to talk about. Whatever the reason, I was not ready.

But something shifted. By high school, I’d done a 180. I dreamed of one day educating others about their bodies and reproductive health. At the time, I didn’t even know about body literacy and fertility awareness. I just knew how vital it was for people to have accurate, empowering information about their bodies.

Fast forward a quarter of a century, and here I am—working to rewrite the script on how we talk about bodies and menstruation.

BodyTalk is not your typical “puberty talk.” First off, it’s daylight. It’s fun. It’s open and welcoming. Preteens and their parents are invited to circle up, learn together, and celebrate what it means to grow and change. This workshop is packed with hands-on activities, including:

  • Drawing, puzzles, and games to understand anatomy and how the way we might feel through a cycle changes.
  • Learning about “red flow” and “white flow” in a clear, approachable way.
  • Exploring different period products and experimenting with absorbency using cranberry juice.
  • And more!

We’re taking the taboo out of periods, creating an inclusive and accessible environment, and promoting a body-positive approach. This is a space where you can connect with your preteen in a meaningful and empowering way.

This workshop is also a response to what I’ve heard time and time again from my adult clients: their first reaction to learning about their bodies as adults is often anger and rage that no one taught them these things when they were younger. We’re changing that narrative for the next generation.

This is a welcoming space for preteens ages 8–12, whether they’ve started menstruating or not. And parents? You’re likely going to learn something new, too!

Let’s normalize these conversations. Let’s shine a light on what’s often shrouded in secrecy. Let’s give our kids the tools they need to approach their bodies with confidence and curiosity. Most importantly, let’s make it fun.

Spaces are filling up fast, and registration closes in just two days. Don’t miss your chance to join us for BodyTalk: A Preteen Period Party. Together, we’re rewriting the narrative and creating a more empowered future—one period party at a time.

The Power All Along

Body Literacy, Infant Mental Health, Nurtured Parenting, Parental Brain / / 4 minutes of reading

In our house, we go to great lengths to avoid screentime for our child. Aside from Facetimes with relatives, screens are pretty much off-limits. The TV lives in the basement and is rarely on. When parenting gets REALLY hard and we’re teetering on the edge of losing it, we sometimes ask, “How do other people do this?” Then we remember: a lot of families rely on TV for childcare breaks.

Sure, we might be making it harder on ourselves, but we are hopeful that carefully managing screentime now will pay off later.

That said, we made an exception last week. We decided to watch The Wizard of Oz as a family—it was the first movie I loved as a kid, and we figured one movie wouldn’t be the end of the world. (Spoiler: our toddler didn’t care much at all and played with blocks.)

Watching it again reminded me of a line that’s stuck with me since childhood: “You’ve had the power all along, my dear.”

For years, before I decided I wanted to have a child and get pregnant, I doubted whether I was “regulated” enough to raise a whole human. During my coach training, “self-regulation” ranked near the bottom of the VIA Character Strengths Assessment for me. My partner, on the other hand, seemed to have self-regulation down. When something distressing happened, he stayed grounded, whereas it would absolutely ROCK me. My emotions hit like a violent tornado—tears, hopelessness, and anxiety swirling in full force. Add being in my luteal phase with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder in for good measure and it was disastrous. I’ve always been a “leaky” person, crying easily no matter the emotion. My therapist calls it my superpower—a way my body speaks before my brain catches up. Still, my inability to “stay grounded” added stress to my relationship. 

My partner couldn’t understand why I couldn’t self-regulate. He once asked if I had a quiet, still place inside myself to retreat to like he does when he gets distressed. I had no idea what he was talking about. So no, I didn’t have that place. For me, grounding isn’t internal; it’s external. Letting my emotions move through me and, more importantly, finding connection with others helps me regulate.

Eventually, I learned about co-regulation and realized it perfectly described my experience. Once I could articulate that, it became a recurring topic in our conversations and eventually in couples therapy (a quick plug: couples therapy is gold, even if nothing is “wrong” in your relationship).

I read about how we learn self-regulation through co-regulation in childhood. Every parent is doing the best they can (I know this now!), but given my nervous system, I probably could’ve benefited from even more co-regulation growing up. So, this is where I landed as I contemplated parenthood: imperfect and doubting whether I could ever become a parent if I wasn’t a self-regulating stoic.

Fast forward to my parenting journey—I was convinced I needed to “fix myself” before having kids. I thought I had to reach some mythical state of self-regulation mastery to be a good parent.

Spoiler: I haven’t mastered self-regulation.

But what I’ve discovered is this: I didn’t need to become the pinnacle of self-regulation to offer my child the co-regulation they need. When my baby and I co-regulate together, it’s not just my baby benefiting—I am too.

Here’s the fascinating part: the developing parent brain undergoes a remarkable period of malleability from mid-pregnancy through the first year postpartum (and continues evolving for years after!). It’s a biological remodeling process, reshaping the brain to suit the demands of parenting. When I learned this a couple months before giving birth, it hit me: I didn’t need to “fix” myself before becoming a parent. The process of becoming a parent itself would support my brain’s rewiring.

What a gift! (Not to mention release of pressure! Phew!)

Co-regulating with my child nourishes their brain and nervous system and my own. I’ve come to see my form of grounding—not through traditional self-regulation, but through co-regulation—as equally valid (and my partner has too!). Different nervous systems, different needs.

This first year of sensitive brain reshaping has felt like an opportunity—a chance to nourish my brain and bodymind in ways I didn’t know I needed. Most importantly, I’ve realized I can nurture my baby’s brain, body, and mental health with what’s already within me.

Like Glinda the Good Witch says, I had the power all along—I just needed to discover it for myself.

via GIPHY