I’m sitting at the gate after four days with my daughter, trying to take a breath without opening things up even more, but it doesn’t really work like that.

David Gray’s The Final Order coming through my headphones:

“Down the road we will return to fire and water…”

There’s a way my mind and body move in moments like this, everything lighting up at once, connections forming faster than I can track, feeling arriving before I have words for it, and for a long time I thought that was something I needed to get under control. Sitting here now, I can feel it happening again, that same opening, that same intensity, but instead of pushing it down I’m just watching it move through me as best I can.

I don’t really care that people are watching me right now.

When something in me opens, it brings everything with it. Joy, grief, gratitude, regret, all moving together without much separation. I close my eyes for a moment, but it doesn’t quiet anything. It just brings her closer and me closer to myself.

There’s something about being with her that returns me to myself in a way nothing else does, not gently and not in a way I can manage, but in a way that exposes something essential and doesn’t leave much room to look away. Being with her these last few days brings a sweetness that also carries an ache, like something in me is still catching up to what was lost and what’s being found again at the same time.

When we first started the school, she was nine months old, and I can still see her on my back in one of those kid backpacks, moving through the space while everything unfolded around us. She would sit there quietly, taking it all in, occasionally reaching forward to tug at my ear, not to get my attention, more like a small signal that she was there, awake to everything, already part of it. I didn’t have language for it then, but looking back it feels like she was absorbing something essential about how to be in the world, and in some quiet way, so was I, even if I didn’t yet understand what was happening.

What I didn’t understand at the time was how much of my own history I was carrying into these moments.

My sixteen-year-old self is sitting here with me at the gate too.

I can feel him in the way everything opens at once, in the part of me that still braces when the intensity rises. There are flashes of it, being locked in that hospital room, the lights coming on through the night, voices and movement in the hallway, the constant sense of not knowing what was happening or how to hold it.

He’s still here, still carrying that fear, that feeling of being too much. I’m not surprised by his presence anymore. In some ways, my deepening of connection with him and my relationship with my daughter have been moving together all along.

I’m staying with him now in a way no one stayed with him then. That same kind of unconditional presence helping me find my way with my daughter, as well.

For a long time, that part of me was seen as something that needed to be controlled, and I saw it that way too. It felt unpredictable, intense, too much to trust. But what I’ve come to understand is that same part of me is also what allows me to feel this deeply, to notice what others might miss, to sense what’s happening beneath the surface, and to stay when things get uncomfortable instead of turning away.

I didn’t know it then, but that part of me came into the school too, not in any obvious way, but in the way I was drawn to children who felt deeply, who moved through the world with a kind of sensitivity that didn’t always fit. Over the years, being with them has done something to me, not just as a teacher, but as a person. There is a kind of honesty in young children, a way they stay close to what they feel, that doesn’t leave much room for pretense, and they don’t let you hide for long. They keep inviting you back, again and again, to something more immediate, more real.

And slowly, without me fully noticing it at first, something in me began to return. Not all at once, and not in some clean or linear way, but through years of small moments of staying, of being present, of allowing what was there to be there. In many ways, these children have been guiding me back to something I lost long before I had language for it, and as that has happened, something else has begun to shift too.

“Break my eyes that I can see eternity now,
Break the ties that I can free the child in me now…”

Back in San Diego, we were sitting together when she said something that caught me off guard. A bright light revealing a blind spot. It wasn’t heavy, just honest in that way she can be, and then she smiled and we were both laughing. There’s something about the way she does that, how she can say something that lands and still leave space for connection, that makes it possible for me to actually hear her without needing to defend myself. I could feel it in my body when it happened, that familiar place where I would usually tighten just didn’t, and I found myself staying open in a way I haven’t always known how to.

The shared laughter some of the best medicine I’ve ever experienced!

It’s hard not to feel the connection between these things, the years of being with children, learning how to stay with what’s real, learning how not to turn away from intensity, and now finding myself sitting across from my daughter, able to stay in a way I haven’t always known how to.

There’s a part of me that feels like she’s always known who I could be, even when I didn’t, not in a way that puts anything on her, but in the way relationships sometimes hold a kind of quiet knowing. As if something in her recognized me before I could fully recognize myself, and as I’ve found my way back, we’ve been able to find each other more naturally.

For a long time, I thought healing would mean becoming less, less reactive, less sensitive, less affected by everything. But that’s not what this is. If anything, it’s more, more feeling, more awareness, more moments where everything is right at the surface. The difference is I’m not trying to get away from it in the same way.

There’s still a part of me that wants to. There’s still a part of me that feels like that sixteen-year-old sometimes.

But I’m staying longer now.

There’s a thread that runs through all of it, from those early days with her on my back, quietly tugging at my ear, to the years of being shaped by children who refused to let me drift too far from what’s real, to the part of me that once felt like too much and is still learning how to be here.

If I could go back to him now, I think I would do something very simple. I would sit down next to him. I wouldn’t try to explain anything. I would just stay.

I’m sitting at the gate now, holding the feeling of these past few days, and what feels clear in this moment is simple.

I’m not trying to feel less anymore.

I’m learning how to stay, and my daughter is at the center of it.

“Pour out the wine, I’ll wait in line for purity now.”

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

Most people who are given diagnostic labels, or described as “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much,” learn those words early. They learn them in classrooms, in families, and in systems where deep feeling is inconvenient. I know this story intimately. I’ve lived it in my own body. And recently, I felt it again when a family I love reached out in fear and confusion as their child was being seen not for who he is, but for how difficult he had become to manage.

What stirred anger in me was not only concern itself, but how quickly sensitivity and vitality were reframed as pathology. How little curiosity there was about trying to adapt the environment the child was being asked to fit into.

As children, we arrive in this world with deep sensitivities. We notice who is sad, who is tense, who is hurting. We respond to beauty, rhythm, and kindness with our whole bodies. In a healthy environment, these sensitivities are not weakness. They are a form of intelligence. They allow us to attune to one another, to cooperate, to care, and to repair when something goes wrong.

And this is exactly why sensitivity makes systems of power uncomfortable. A sensitive person is harder to numb, harder to condition, harder to convince that something is wrong when their body is telling a different story. Power prefers people who can be trained to ignore themselves.

It doesn’t take long for a child’s sensitivity to be labeled a problem. The child who feels deeply becomes “dramatic.” The one who notices everything becomes “distractible.” The one who resists harshness becomes “defiant.” Instead of asking what these children are responding to, we ask how to make them easier to manage and fit into existing systems.

So we build classrooms, schedules, and institutions around control instead of curiosity. We reward compliance more than connection. We call it education, but often what we are really doing is teaching children to override their own nervous systems in order to survive a world that has forgotten how to be gentle.

It is within this larger pattern, not as an isolated incident, that a family recently reached out to me.

Their seven-year-old had been part of my school community for three years. They were struggling with how his new school was seeing and relating to him. They were being told he might have ADHD. His teachers were having difficulty managing him in the classroom.

The behaviors being described were rarely present during his time in my care, quite the opposite. When he was given creative freedom, he was deeply focused. When he felt genuinely seen and respected for who he was, he became a thoughtful community member and a natural leader as he grew with us. This child was highly emotive and sensitive to everything going on around him. It was clear from the beginning that this was primary in understanding and supporting him within our community. When he felt this kind of acknowledgement and care, especially from another sensitive dude :-), he felt safe and inspired. And, yes, helping him find himself within our little community was also holding that same little boy within. So it goes within this path I find myself on.

From my perspective, his reactions made sense. He had gone from spending much of his day outside, moving his body and engaging in open-ended play, to an environment where movement and freedom were suddenly limited. He went from a smaller setting focused primarily on emotional and social development to a larger, more structured public school environment. Instead of asking how the environment might be adjusted to support him, the focus shifted toward diagnosing his response to that change.

It made me wonder how often we pathologize a perfectly understandable reaction to an environment that does not fit.

What children and my own experiences have taught me is that there is another way to care for sensitive beings. It does not start with correction. It starts with attunement.

When a child is overwhelmed, the most powerful intervention is not a consequence. It is presence. Someone who kneels down, softens their voice, and says, “I see you. Something big is happening inside you.” In that moment, the child does not calm down because the feeling disappears, but because they are no longer alone with it.

The anger I felt for this boy was unmistakably my own, as well. It rose from an old place, a place that remembers how rarely I was met with that kind of presence. Let’s be straight about it: when I first heard of this I was beside myself with anger. I immediately wrote a long take down of the whole system and what they were missing in this remarkable boy. I’m glad I didn’t hit send right away. It was a bit much. I was consumed by this for a day or so before I realized the obvious. I still have a lot of buried anger for how I was misunderstood and treated when I was younger.

When I was young, no one met me the way I connected with and understood this boy. My sensitivity, my intensity, and my imagination were read through a medical and cultural lens that saw them as danger. I was hospitalized. I was medicated. I was taught that my inner world could not be trusted. What I needed was not to be subdued. I needed to be met exactly where I was, with compassion and understanding. I needed an experienced voice and a community to help me understand both the dangers and the gifts of being able to feel so much, along with stories of what is possible and how.

Years later, working with children, I began to realize something. The very qualities that had been labeled as symptoms in me were the same qualities that made me a good teacher. My sensitivity allowed me to notice what children were feeling before they had words for it. It allowed me to respond with care instead of control. I was not broken. I was built for a world that knew how to feel and listen, as we all are.

So what would it look like to do this differently?

It would start by remembering that sensitivity is not a defect to be fixed, but a form of perception that deserves care. It would mean building classrooms, families, and communities organized around relationship instead of control. It would mean training educators, therapists, and caregivers not just in techniques, but in presence. In how to listen, how to slow down, how to stay when feelings are big, messy, and inconvenient.

It would mean creating spaces for people in emotional crisis that look more like homes and less like prisons. Places where someone can speak about their visions and fears without being immediately told they are sick. Places where the transformational nature of these experiences are respected, and where intensity, imagination, and grief are not feared.

Most of all, it would mean changing the questions we ask.

Not “What’s wrong with you?”
But “What’s happening inside?”
And even more gently, “What are you trying to show us?”

Children answer these questions with their whole beings. They cry when they hurt. They reach out when they need comfort. They remind us that feeling is not the enemy of being human. It is the doorway. It is how we stay connected to ourselves and to one another.

Our culture is starving for that kind of remembering.

We are lonely, anxious, overstimulated, and disconnected not because we are weak, but because we have been trained to abandon our inner worlds in order to survive. We have learned that feeling deeply is dangerous, that needing others is shameful, and that slowing down is a luxury we cannot afford.

If there is a quiet revolution hiding in all of this, it begins when we stop treating sensitivity as something to be outgrown and start treating it as something to be protected. When we build communities that can hold big feelings instead of medicating them away. When we allow ourselves to be seen, not as polished or fixed, but as human.

I think of that child and his family as I write this. I think of the many children standing at similar thresholds, and of the adults doing their best to guide them through unfamiliar terrain. My hope is that we learn to pause long enough to ask not how to make children fit, but how to shape worlds that can hold them.

At a time of profound societal upheaval, it feels not only possible but necessary to imagine educational systems built on different foundations. Systems that place emotional intelligence, relational safety, individualized learning, and community health at the center rather than at the margins. When children feel seen, regulated, and connected, learning follows naturally. This isn’t idealism. It’s common sense rooted in how human nervous systems actually work.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

Lately I have been carrying a lot of rage and disgust as I bear witness to events unfolding in my old home of Minneapolis, and the world at large. Even from far away, I clearly remember that place and its impact on me as a young man.

Minneapolis was where I first began to understand myself as someone who cared deeply about the world and about justice. It was my first home after college. Instead of getting a “real job,” I walked into the local Greenpeace office and somehow never looked back.

I was surrounded by an unlikely and beautiful mix of steady Midwestern values alongside punk, activist, LGBTQ, hippy, change-the-world energy. The people I met there and the work of being an activist helped shape me. That choice quietly set the course for much of my life, even though I could not see it at the time. It eventually led me toward teaching. Toward a lifelong question about how to stay openhearted and have an impact in a world that so often feels cruel and out of touch.

During those years, my commitment sometimes took physical form. I was arrested a few times while protesting environmental issues. I remember the clarity and passion. The rush of certainty. The strange calm that arrived once the decision had been made. It was also, in some ways, a distraction from the inner turmoil and unresolved wounding of my younger self I have written about in past posts.

At the time, I did not yet understand my own intensity. What was labeled bipolar was already shaping how I moved through the world, though I was in deep denial. My highs felt like a return to normal, a sense of finally being myself again. Everything felt urgent and interconnected, and the suffering of the planet was my cause. That intensity carried real risk, pushing me beyond rest and discernment, and it also gave me access to courage. On the surface, fear had little voice. Beneath it all, though, lived a frightened little boy I did not yet know how to care for. My body often said yes before my mind could calculate consequence, making me willing to take risks others were not.

At sixty years old, that intensity still lives in me. I have not tried to erase it, but to tend and channel it. The courage is still there in a more grounded form which shows up at times in my willingness to be vulnerable and how I speak truth. It also shows up in the fierceness in how I love the children in my life and hold the container of my school. Learning how to care for that intensity is now part of both my teaching and my activism.

What I am sitting with now is different.

How do you show up as a caregiver when the feelings become too much? This, I have learned, is part of the real art of teaching. It is the work of navigating your own inner weather while holding responsibility for others.

Putting a smile on my face and showing up steadily for the families in my life has been harder these days. I know from experience that pretending everything is fine is not the path to health. Honoring whatever is present, whether grief, fear, anger, or despair, is essential. When I stop listening to my inner life, things get buried, and buried things do not stay quiet for long with my sensitivities.

Staying connected to and understanding what I am feeling has become a core piece of my self care. Still, I keep asking what to do with all this rage once I have acknowledged it.

Running my school through a non biased, social justice rooted lens helps. It does matter. But some days it does not feel like enough. Teaching, loving kids, writing this blog, all of it feels meaningful, yet incomplete.

My old activist self from my Minneapolis days has been knocking louder lately, asking me to do more, be more, risk more.

I can feel that younger energy stirring again. Not in the same way, but with a familiar hum. Part of me remembers how courage once came easily, how the line between care and self sacrifice blurred, how being willing to be arrested once felt like clarity rather than danger.

But I am no longer living only inside my own body.

I am responsible for children now. For families. For a community built on steadiness and trust. The risks I once took freely do not belong solely to me anymore.

And yet ignoring that energy feels dangerous too. The moment we find ourselves in is calling for all of us to figure out how to act, agitate, and disrupt. For me, intensity does not disappear when it is disciplined. It waits. If it is not given a conscious outlet, it turns inward. It becomes anxiety, despair, numbness, and for me, a path toward upheaval. So this too is part of my inner world calling for care.

So I sit in the tension.

Between the part of me that once went door to door gathering signatures, raising awareness, and getting arrested to bring attention to environmental injustice, and the part of me that now runs a respected preschool.

Both are real. Both were born from love and a call to service.

I believe that being a teacher in this moment requires us to be activists as well. Not necessarily in the ways we once imagined, and not always in ways that are loud or visible, but in ways that are deeply intentional.

The work of teaching has never been neutral. Choosing how we speak about belonging. Choosing whose humanity we protect. Choosing whether fear or care guides our classrooms. Choosing what books we place in children’s hands. How we expose and prepare children for the world at large. These are not small choices. They are moral ones.

How I take a stand going forward may look different than it once did. It may not involve being arrested or standing at the front lines. Or maybe it will? It may involve staying rooted when it would be easier to withdraw. Speaking when silence feels safer. Modeling courage that is steady rather than explosive. Taking risks beyond the safety of the life I have created.

I am not willing to separate my care for children from my care for the world they are inheriting.

So I let the activist and the teacher walk together. Not as competing identities, but as partners. One reminding me what is at stake. The other reminding me who is watching.

And maybe coming full circle does not mean going back, but going forward with my eyes open, my heart engaged, and my feet planted firmly in the life I have chosen.

And maybe, in some quiet and demanding way, it is still Minneapolis teaching me how to stand.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

This essay describes several years of my personal experience with Ayahuasca. It is not meant to encourage the use of any substance, nor to simplify the risks involved. People with nervous systems like mine can be especially vulnerable in these altered states, and nothing in this essay should be taken as guidance.

I’m sharing this because these ceremonies intersected with a long and complicated journey of mental health, sensitivity, and spiritual struggle. One I’m still learning how to live with. Ayahuasca did not “fix” me. But it helped return me to parts of myself I had abandoned, and the integration that followed has been a part of shaping the way I currently move through the world.

This story is offered as a record of personal truth, nothing more.

The story of how I went from a forcible psychiatric hospitalization, to years of surviving the ups and downs, to where I am now would be incomplete without the Ayahuasca years.

I was in my early forties, and everything was falling apart. Waves of insomnia gripped me. My partner and daughter had left for good reason, and I was desperate to get to the heart of things. Even in my darkest moments, I could sense the wounding, the trauma, and some faint, buried awareness that my true nature was hiding beneath it all. I just had no idea how to reach it, or what to do once I did. I was afraid that if I didn’t find a way through, everything would unravel completely.

Around this time, some friends of mine began an Ayahuasca circle. I remember feeling I had nothing left to lose. There’s a kind of fearlessness that comes when you’re standing on the edge, so I went for it.

I want to be careful not to romanticize or glorify these experiences. For people with sensitivities like mine, there are real dangers in entering these spaces. For one, you just can’t do this while on medication. And once you begin, there’s really no turning back. Being “blown open,” as they say, can bring on more difficulty before anything gets better, which was certainly true for me. Yet as I look back now, it’s clear that these experiences were an important ingredient to the relative health and self understanding I feel today.

The second weekend in the circle was the turning point. I sat with this group for about three years, doing weekend ceremonies every three months or so. The first weekend had been, in retrospect, a preparation for what was to come with some sweet visions and a gentle introduction to this powerful medicine. During that second one, I found myself with my ego seemingly dead beside me. A sense of being completely naked and alone, a stranger in my body, seeing all my pain and wounding laid bare. A sense of profound terror. It was overwhelming. I didn’t know what to do with it all until the tears came.

I had forgotten how to cry. I hadn’t known that my capacity to feel so deeply is one of my true gifts in this lifetime. I had learned to separate and contain this part of myself for most of my adult life up until these moments. But there I was, praying over my purge bucket, releasing pain, old stories, and generations of trauma that weren’t mine to hold. Then I was on all fours, uncontrollably weeping as something inside me had broken open. A dam had burst. And in many ways, I’ve been crying ever since.

As a boy, I learned early to hide my emotions. “Big boys don’t cry.” My father, a scientist and man of logic, didn’t know how to relate to my sensitivities. I had no sensitive male elders to help me understand and realize this is were my true masculine power resides. Emotions were for women, my dad thought, so I buried that part of myself and tried to fit the mold. But that was never going to last and a root cause of so many of my struggles as a younger man.

Ayahuasca is called the death vine for a reason which became abundantly clear the night of my ego death. It felt like a real death in the moment. But in that space, something also felt strangely familiar, as if I had stepped back into parts of the same inner territory I had crossed during earlier upheavals in my life. The intense waves, the psychic unraveling, the sensitivity that had so often pushed me to the edge.

In many ways, those years with the medicine became a kind of practice: learning how to sit with my own cycles of disorientation, loss, and reemergence. Ayahuasca reminded me that being truly alive requires the willingness to move through these inner deaths and births, not to escape them. The teaching was to lean in rather than turn away, to trust that each ending carries the potential of a new beginning waiting just beneath the surface.

The ceremonies that followed continued to bring me back into these same territories. But something had started to shift. I wasn’t simply being thrown into the darkness anymore: I was learning to stay with myself inside it. I could find small pockets of calm, and in that calm, I began to notice that the darkness wasn’t actually empty. There was illumination there, if I stayed long enough to let my eyes adjust.

I slowly began to feel a strange kind of comfort in places that had once terrified me. The purge bucket, which is so many people’s least favorite part of the ceremony, became, for me, a kind of altar. It was where I learned to let pain move through me instead of sealing it inside. Night after night, I was wiring into myself a capacity I didn’t know I had: the ability to hold pain without collapsing, to stay connected to my own goodness even while falling apart. A real Buddhist sensibility started to emerge as I began to find comfort within the storm. A knowing that this is actually the way.

Some nights I would rise out of these darker spaces and find myself flooded with a sense of connection—to the people beside me, to the forest, to the stories of my ancestors, to the great mystery that holds all of this. The medicine kept telling me, again and again: This beauty is yours. This connection is yours. But you must do the work. And when the time comes, you will have to walk away from this place and take the teachings with you.

If I had to sum up my years with Ayahuasca, it would be something like this: I learned how to be with all of myself—my fear, my grief, my darkness, my tenderness, my sensitivity. I learned how to cry and grieve again . And within those tears, I found compassion. I began to see myself clearly, to name what hurts, and to begin the long work of loving all of who I am. And with that came a deeper sense of connection. As opposed to the isolation I had learned through the years of struggle and uncertainty.

The key ingredient though was this feeling part of myself and its ability to show me how connected I really am. All of it! The part that shines as a respected preschool teacher. Or as my astrologer friend would say it’s just your moon in Pisces:-)

In the months and years that followed, the ceremonies didn’t stop echoing through me. The nights in the circle were only the beginning; the real work came afterward, in the quiet, unremarkable moments of daily life. I began to understand that healing wasn’t about chasing transcendence or getting back to the medicine, it was about learning how to live gently inside my own skin. Ayahuasca had given me some essential teachings, a re-connection to my true nature, some visions of what's possible and a long home work list. The call was to get to work, one day at a time.

There were long stretches of confusion and exhaustion. The tears kept coming, often at inconvenient times—walking down the street, standing in line at the grocery store, running into a friend in town. At first, I worried something was wrong with me. Then I began to see that these tears were washing something clean, that they were part of how my body knew how to heal itself and keep me connected to the heart of the matter.

Integration for me wasn’t a neat or linear process. I didn’t return from Ayahuasca “fixed.” If anything, I came back more open, more sensitive, and more aware of how fragile my human heart really is. I had to learn to care for myself in a way that felt intimate and deeply personal with a clarity that I am my own healer, who also needs witness and support. I had to learn how to hold and move through pain, as well, not avoid it. It was more like tending a garden than following a treatment plan.

I started paying attention to rhythm. I learned that I need slowness, rest, and space for solitude. Too much stimulation, noise or social demand can send my system into chaos. I’ve come to see this sensitivity as both my challenge and my gift. It’s the very thing that, when honored, keeps me balanced.

Ayahuasca didn’t cure me. What it did was help reintroduce me to the parts of myself I had banished. It showed me that my so called “breakdowns” were often the language of my soul asking to be heard. It helped me see that my health isn’t about stability in the conventional sense. It’s about harmony, about being able to move with the waves rather than fight them.

These days, my life looks quieter from the outside, but inside it feels more spacious. The storms still come(not as often or acute,and shorter in duration) with waves of energy, sleepless nights, old wounds that flare up, but I meet them differently now. I no longer see them as signs that I’m broken or failing. They’re just reminders of how finely tuned I am, how close to the surface my inner life lives. A wake up call if I’m not being true to my innate nature and the care I’ve come to see as essential.

The man who once felt shattered, desperate, and alone is still somewhere inside me, but now I can hold him with compassion. I can thank him for surviving long enough for the rest of me to emerge. I don’t pretend to have found a cure or a single truth, only a deeper relationship with what is real in me.

If Ayahuasca taught me anything, it’s that healing isn’t about escape or transcendence. It’s about remembering how to belong: to our bodies, to our stories, to the earth itself. It’s about being willing to feel, to be seen, and to trust that feeling itself, in all its variations, is an essential form of wisdom.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

After two weeks away from school, traveling and reconnecting with family, I returned feeling stretched and keenly aware of how much I wanted time to myself. These are the moments when old fears and familiar patterns tend to surface, when escape into solitude has long been my default. Sometimes that retreat is necessary. Sometimes it is just an old strategy for managing what feels too chaotic inside. In those moments, I can miss the deeper need underneath it all, the need for connection, community, and balance. My mental health experiences have taught me to pay attention here. Vulnerability opens doors, and when I ignore that, what I have lived through has a way of quietly reclaiming me.

In moments like these, my internal compass can start spinning. I become unsure of what I really need, who I really am. My heart can feel a million miles away.

Working so closely with young children requires a steady emotional availability. There is constant listening, noticing, and attuning, an ongoing orientation toward others that rarely pauses. I seldom feel the cost of that while I am in it. Compassion fatigue reveals itself only after I step away, when the structure and rhythm fall quiet. That is when it can suddenly feel as though I need far more time than I took, not just to rest, but to truly replenish. And when my internal compass is already spinning, it becomes harder to tell the difference between what is healing solitude and what is simply another form of retreat.

I have been deeply shaped by my mental health experiences. They transformed me and clarified my limits, my tenderness, and my intensity, along with what it takes for me to stay well. Those experiences do not disappear. They remain close, especially when I stop caring for myself properly. When I fail to recognize my own depletion early enough, the ground beneath me can begin to feel less stable.

I did not want to return to work. Part of me was certain I needed distance, quiet, fewer demands. Another part, the one that knows how easily I disappear from myself when I isolate too long, wondered if what I actually needed was to come back into relationship.

When the first morning arrived, I felt split. Part of me wanted to step back from a role that has asked so much of me for so long. Another part showed up because showing up has long been one of the ways I have stayed connected to rhythm, to relationship, and to a sense of purpose, especially during the years when everything else felt unstable.

Then the children started arriving.

I heard the first child in the parking area urging his parent to hurry so he could be the first one to see me. He came bounding in, beaming, speaking in a rush about everything that had happened while we were apart. Pure joy! As he shared, the others arrived, surrounding me, tugging at my legs, hugging me, each carrying something urgent and precious to offer. In that swirl of love and excitement, something in me that had been pulled inward began to turn back toward life.

Within moments, we were standing in a loose circle. Everyone had a turn. Everyone was listened to. Laughter moved easily among us. The community skills the children have been practicing all year, how to listen, how to speak, how to belong, were clearly visible. No one needed help saying goodbye to their parents. They simply settled back into the safety we have been building together.

The parents lingered, watching quietly, then slipped away with soft smiles, as if witnessing something both ordinary and rare.

Something in me shifted almost immediately. I felt it first in my body, a softening and an opening, before my mind could catch up. The day unfolded with an ease I could not have planned. The larger questions did not disappear, but they loosened their grip. They rested alongside the life I have built and no longer demanded answers, only a willingness to live inside them.

My experiences have taught me that I cannot care well, for myself and others, when I leave parts of myself behind. Presence matters more than endurance. When I push past my limits, I can lose the very ground I am trying to stand on. Compassion fatigue does not mean the well is empty. More often, it means I have forgotten how I am replenished.

And here it was again, remembrance. I am restored through relationship as much as through solitude. Through time with family. Through shared stories and shared laughter. Through a circle formed without instruction. I often imagine I need to retreat in order to stay well, and sometimes that is true. But I also need to belong. I need to be held in connection. Here, with these children, I have somehow created the very thing I need most.

They keep me alive to wonder. They draw me back into play. They return me to my own creative and tender self, again and again, just when I am in danger of drifting too far away.

Maybe this is what we all forget from time to time: that we do not find ourselves by pulling away from the world, but by standing inside a circle that knows our name. For now, this is my circle. In the laughter, the stories, and the ordinary miracle of being together, something in me keeps finding its way home.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher ( He/Him)

It has been over three months since the upheaval of late summer, and I still feel myself slowly returning, though each time it’s never quite in the same way. Every time I go through something like this, I tell myself I have already come back only to realize that I am fooling myself. Later I realize the return is always slow, subtle, and best understood from a distance. I want to believe that healing is quick and tidy, yet integrating these experiences takes time: what happened, what I sensed coming toward me, and the parts of my soul I had not been honoring.

This season makes that truth easier to see. As the days shorten, I feel the familiar pull inward. The darkness becomes an invitation to tend to the matters of my soul, the territories of my shadow, and the grief I have carried for a long time. When I add the recent upheaval to this yearly turning, the pull becomes even stronger.

Yet over the years I have practiced staying connected within these shifts. I can go inward without disappearing. I can remain in relationship with my responsibilities, with the people I love, and with the world that keeps moving whether I feel ready or not. There is more alignment now between my inner and outer life, and I am more able to speak honestly from both places. Still, the tension is real and it’s not only a shift for me but also for the people closest to me.

Part of me wants to retreat completely and close the door behind me. The difference is that I rarely act on that urge anymore. I name what is happening instead of letting it spill out with projections, anger, and self doubt…… mostly. I also understand that not everyone needs to hear my reflections about darkness, the shadow, or the alchemy of re-connection that lives here. This is deeply personal and deep care must be taken if and when I share. An incubation period of sorts.

And then there is the school. Four days a week I step outside my home, turn south, and walk a short distance to greet the kids. They arrive with the usual light that all seems a little brighter from within this space and during this time of year.

My school is not a typical childcare program. It lives on several acres next to my home in a beautiful natural location just outside a progressively minded city. My relative comforts are staggering and foundational to how I relate to my experiences. At times it feels like a bubble inside another bubble, protected from the larger unraveling world.

Rain or shine, steady or shaken, I make that short walk south and show up. It still surprises me. Even in seasons when I feel pulled underground, I can enter that space with a clear presence. More than ever, I understand what the children offer me and how they keep me from falling to far. So in some ways I am more eager to connect with the kids during these moments within the darkness, understanding that a pack of little healers who love me await.

They make the inwardness bearable. During the time of year when I want to withdraw, they gently pull me back into connection without asking me to ignore what is happening inside. They remind me that the childlike part of my soul, the part that knows how to wonder and soften and start again, has never left.

My way of showing up also changes during this season. My presence feels more grounded. I lean into the tough side of love a little more with clear intention. I am more honest and direct with those around me. And myself! The children’s response to this shift says, “we like you like this.” There is a steadiness and clarity that the children sense immediately, as if they can hear a quiet hum inside me that is usually hidden.

Some years this season feels like a descent with no clear bottom. This year feels different. In the middle of the heaviness I can sense small signs of my own return: the ease that moves back into my chest as the kids settle in each day, the way a child’s laughter opens something in me, the simple realization that I am not as far from myself as I thought.

Maybe this is what healing looks like now. Not a clean return, but a steady balancing of inwardness and service, shadow and light, solitude and community. A slow re-emergence. A quiet, gradual unfurling toward myself again.

Or, maybe , there is still much more to go within this decent and return, and I’m just fooling myself again. I’ll keep you posted.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

After one year of posting here, one thing has become very clear: in the end, I’m just looking for some real face to face friendships. Friends with a shared lived experience. Friends who live in my community. People I can meet eye to eye, share a hug with, sit beside when things get rough.

But how do I do that and still stay somewhat anonymous in this part of myself I call “mad”? I’m keenly aware of the real danger of coming out fully in my local community. I know the risks: social, professional, and especially to the preschool, which is the heartbeat of my life’s work.

Yet the simple truth is this: having a space to put my whole story down and be witnessed has been profoundly healing. I’m grateful for the small circle of friends and family here, and for the equal number of unknown regular readers who keep showing up. This space has allowed me to speak freely, to explore, to experiment with language around my experiences. It’s given me a way to begin stitching together the threads of my story and feel good about it.

What surprised me most this past year is how the writing itself has worked on me. It has become its own teacher. The Mad Preschool Teacher persona gives me enough distance and playfulness to tell the truth. And in telling the truth, I’ve started becoming more fully myself. I can see now that MPT is just a stop on the journey. A temporary mask that lets me practice holding both my tenderness and my madness with humor, compassion, and clarity. I’ll keep writing from this voice while I still need it, but I can see now that this is just a stop along the way of becoming more fully ME.

And this writing has given me something else: the courage to share more. When I choose to let someone in on the “mad” side of my life, I can point them here. I don’t have to explain everything in a single breath. My words are already waiting for them, offering context and time. The time to work through their own assumptions and to understand how any of this could coexist with running a beloved preschool. This archive has helped me open up selectively, carefully, and with more trust.

But after my latest upheaval, I realized that a handful of online friendships, wonderful as they are, just isn’t enough. What I’m longing for is real, face to face community with people who understand the wild, tender territory I’ve lived through. Within the difficulties of this last experience I kept imagining this space, having a few friends I could call who’d be there for me with an understanding from their own lived experiences what I’m going through.

I want a circle where it’s safe to be completely real. A place where I can fall apart if I need to, and where others can too. A place to see and be seen as we each fumble with our own unique trauma and variations of these challenging experiences.

Honestly, this just feels like a sane response to the madness of the world at large and our collapsing systems. Breaking our isolation and offering mutual aid around a shared experience might be one of the few meaningful things any of us can do right now.

So I’m letting my two worlds—mad and preschool teacher— meet each other. I’m starting a small, peer-led mutual aid support group. Maybe even right in the preschool.

Here’s the risk I’m actually taking: I’m not going fully public. I’m not hanging flyers around town or posting on Facebook. I’m doing this quietly by reaching out to friends, trusted care providers, and a handful of people who already know me well. And even this is its own leap. Word travels. Communities talk. This is good gossip material! And some people still can’t hold both truths at once: that I run a sweet, thriving preschool and that I’ve lived through experiences many still misunderstand or fear.

I know the stigma. I know the assumptions. I’m protective of my livelihood, of the families who trust me, of the children whose world I get to help shape. That’s why I’m being cautious and intentional. I’m trying to honor my own need for connection without putting the school at risk.

But the calling is louder than the fear. At sixty, I feel a responsibility to support not just myself but others—especially younger people who are just beginning to understand their own similar experiences.

Recently, I heard about a young person who once came to my school who was away at college for the first time. They were forcibly hospitalized after an overwhelming moment and given the typical biomedical labels. And I thought: What if they and their family knew I was here? Not to fix anything. Not to impose my worldview. But simply to offer a model of what is possible. A friend who knows you and your essence with a bit of experience to bear. To say: there are many ways through this. And you are not broken. But mostly just to listen from a place of experience.

If I can be that steady, transparent adult for even one person, then maybe all the difficult parts of my path will have a place to belong.

So yes. I’m quietly building a small, in-person peer led mutual aid support circle. And if we’re trying to return to something essential and childlike in ourselves, then there’s probably no better place than the mad preschool teacher’s school to gather.

I’ve shared this with a few trusted care providers—some of whom had children at my school. And to my local friends who read these posts: if you know someone who might need a space like this, feel free to point them my way. Maybe send a message first.

It scares me, yes. I know I’m asking my community to hold a fuller picture of who I am. Not everyone can do that. Not everyone wants to. But I’m tired of hiding the parts of me that have shaped me the most, and tired of trying to heal relatively alone.

Maybe this is the path of the wounded healer. Or maybe it’s just the simplest wisdom children offer us every day:

Find your friends.
Decide what you’re going to play.
And play with your whole heart.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

It was one of those perfect autumn days today — crisp, bright, and too beautiful to go inside. After a long walk through the woods near the school and a couple of hours of uninterrupted play, we all reached that familiar place of tired happiness. So out came the giant mat.

“Story time!” I called.

No need to say it twice. Lunch boxes appeared, water bottles dropped, and a tangle of happy, dirt smudged faces gathered close. But before the first story could begin, there was business to discuss. Playground business.

Who got too many turns.
Who didn’t get enough.
Who may or may not have pushed who off a log.

These are some of my favorite kinds of conversations at school. The ones where fairness meets feeling, and everyone practices the art of being together. They’re rich with learning, the kind that doesn’t fit neatly into a lesson plan. At this point in the year, the kids trust the space we’ve built. My job is mostly to listen, to help them name what they already know about being in community. They speak up, they listen, and everyone’s voice is heard before we move on.

This is just nature taking its course. There’s a deep human need to process and understand the details of living with others. It just needs a bit of space and attention from the adults.

Once all hearts were mended and stories of injustice resolved, it was time for the real stories.

After mornings like this, I can usually count on long attention spans. So I went big with six books. We paused often within each story to talk about what the characters were learning — how they handled frustration, what it means to be kind or brave. Story time has a way of turning into life study for us all, and I’m all for it. The discussions in between are the best part.

By the end of the sixth story, though, they still weren’t done. Then came the chant:
“Land of Boring! Land of Boring!”

About twenty years ago, in a moment just like this, I made up The Land of Boring on the spot. Stories about absolutely nothing… or maybe about absolutely everything. I did it just to be silly. I figured the kids would boo or groan. Instead, they loved it. They wanted more. And they’ve been asking for it ever since. One of many such traditions around here that began by accident and never went away.

The concept is simple: take something totally ordinary and tell it as though it’s the most dramatic adventure ever told. Speak slowly. Add long, thoughtful pauses. Include your wandering thoughts, your distractions, your little inner dialogues. (Preschool appropriate, of course.)

Today’s tale was The Making of My Morning Tea.

It was a cool, rainy morning as I wandered slowly into the kitchen still half dreaming. I was on my way to make tea when a small bird outside the window caught my eye. It hovered near the feeder, tilting its head as if watching me back.

I paused.
We regarded each other for a moment.

But the mission of tea was at hand, so I carried on one slow, purposeful step at a time.

I reached for the kettle and noticed a small ache in my back, a reminder to do yoga later. As the pot filled, my mind began to wander: the day ahead, a friend who was struggling, the tools I forgot to put away yesterday. Before I knew it, the water was overflowing.

I laughed, poured a little out, and gently set the pot on the stove.

The water seemed to take its sweet time coming to a boil. Finally, the whistle. The tea bag tore — riiiiiip! — a moment of pure drama. And then the pour! The audience gasped.

And then, at last, after all that suspense and stillness, came the first sip.

A long pause.
A sigh.
Complete satisfaction.

Applause. Then the inevitable chorus: “Tell another!”

What I think they love most isn’t just the silliness. This is the kind of presence they inhabit and always looking to see if we are there with them. Kids can sense when an adult is truly here — not just nearby, but with them. When they laugh and ask for more, what they’re really saying is, We see you. Stay here with us.

I’ve started carrying this practice into my own days. Washing dishes becomes an epic of scrubbing and reflection. Folding laundry turns into a quiet meditation. Even driving to town becomes a slow, narrated story from the Land of Boring. It’s oddly grounding — a gentle rebellion against the pace of the world.

Somewhere along the way, I realized these stories had become more than school fun. They’d become part of my own self care. A way to steady myself when the day feels too full, to breathe, to remember that simple things done with attention are enough. Narrating them, even silently, slows the mind. It softens the noise. It reminds me to slow down and move through the day with a little more curiosity and kindness — toward myself, toward the moment, toward everything.

I recently told a boring tale to my partner about getting out of bed and coming down the stairs in the morning. She listened quietly and said, “Can you tell another?”

That’s when I realized these tales aren’t boring at all.

They’re invitations to slow down, to notice, to remember that life isn’t hiding in the next big thing. It’s right here, in the small, quiet details we usually rush past.

Maybe that’s the real magic of being with children in how the lessons move both ways. The kids remind me, again and again, how presence can transform even the smallest moment into something meaningful. They invite me to slow down, to notice, to play my way back into awareness. In that sense, the Land of Boring isn’t boring at all. It’s a shared story — one we keep telling each other about what it means to be fully here, fully alive, right now.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher(He/Him)

Her name was Lisa May! She was my youngest sister. I’m the oldest of three. And this is the story I’ve been trying to write for a while now. Every time I try to put it down, my heart tightens up and I walk away. But I keep returning because love and loss are asking me to not look away.

Lisa died on October 9th, 2021, around midnight. It was a hit-and-run. She was jaywalking, pushing a shopping cart full of her things. She’d been homeless for several years by then and was addicted to meth. By that time, she was largely out of our reach. The spiral of her pain had taken her so far. There’s a darkness in all of this that’s so difficult to describe. But I want to try anyway.

Lisa was electric. When she was shining, she was magnetic—playful, tender, wild, endlessly creative. She could light up a room with her laughter and then turn around and see through you so sharply it left you stunned. Of all of us, she burned the brightest. And like so many bright lights, she was also burning up on the inside.

She came into the world already fighting. Born over two months early by emergency C-section, she spent the first stretch of her life in an incubator. It’s something I think about often. That even at birth, her tiny body had to work so hard just to survive. Maybe that was the seed. Maybe that first trauma etched itself into her nervous system and set a course we couldn’t see yet. But of course, it’s never just one thing. It’s always a constellation.

Things started to shift for her in adolescence, just like they did for me. There’s one image I can never forget: I was being forcibly removed from our home and placed in a psychiatric hospital. She was just eleven, standing on the stairs, crying and looking down on the scene. I still clearly see her there with my other sister. A very traumatic moment for all of us! We didn’t know it then, but her time was coming, too. Our home was already falling apart by then. Our parents were locked in a bitter divorce. Our dad was long gone and already planning another life. And our mom struggled with her own darkness. Her depression ran deep at times, and she saw the highs as "getting back to normal." I inherited that thinking, too. When I was up, I was "okay." But I know now that was never quite true.

Despite my mom's challenges she managed to show up for us. With Lisa she taught me how unconditional love is just that as she gave money and let Lisa live with her at times when it rationally seemed like a bad idea . She tried to be there until it was no longer safe. For me it took becoming a parent to truly understand this.

When Lisa’s pain started surfacing, it often looked like rage. Sharp, unpredictable, overwhelming. I didn’t know what to do with it. None of us did. We fought a lot. And she had this way of getting under my skin, saying things during our fights that cut so deep. She could see my dysfunction, my shame, maybe even better than I could. I didn’t understand it then, but now I think that’s just one of the painful gifts that can come with being empathic in a family like ours. She felt everything. Deeply. Sometimes more than any of us could bear.

One of my sweetest memories is visiting her in college when she was cast as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I can still see her, flying across the stage, commanding it with joy and mischief. Theater gave her structure, purpose, community, and a way to channel all that energy. It was one of the only places where she seemed to be okay.

After graduating, she decided she was going to Hollywood to make it big. That dream gave her a sense of direction, but it also began her long drift away from us. The dream never quite materialized. She tried but over time she started isolating. Her rage continued to push everyone away.

My other sister showed up a lot for Lisa during those years, as well. She sent money, opened her home, and kept reaching for Lisa through some of her darkest moments. I watched her and my mom try to bridge the impossible gap, again and again. And me? I was barely holding myself together. I was deep in my own struggle, doing everything I could to avoid looking into the family shadow, into my shadow. Lisa’s pain mirrored so much of what I was trying not to see in myself at the time. To look at her too closely was to risk crumbling under the weight of my own unhealed wounds. And for that, I still carry shame. I wish I could’ve shown up with what I know now—wish I’d been stronger, clearer, more grounded. But I wasn’t. I didn’t know how at the time.

It’s a grief I’ll carry. A regret that’s part of me now. But it also fuels something in me. A deep desire to show up now, in the present, for others like Lisa. To be a voice, to hold space, to make visible the ones we so often lose sight of. Our stories sit on opposite ends of the same spectrum. We were shaped by the same forces, but our paths diverged. I survived, transformed, and have found a way to accentuate the gifts within these difficult experiences. She didn’t. It could of been me. That reality humbles me every day.

She did some community theater now and then during her LA years, but the same patterns kept repeating. Her pain would surface. Her rage would scare people. Every community she tried to build eventually fell apart. Even the L.A. Burning Man crowd who are about as accepting and wild as people come eventually pulled away. She was known as Danger Girl then. A fitting name indeed! She found a temporary home in that scene, and we had hope. But it never held. I don’t blame those friends. I know how hard it was to love her when the darkness took over.

And yet... when she was in her light, you couldn’t resist her. She was funny and brilliant and absolutely unforgettable. She had a tenderness that took your breath away at times. A creative spark and warmth that lured you in. But then, without warning, the storm would come. And we’d all be left confused, exhausted, heartbroken.

It was around this time she started self medicating. The beginning of the end. The eventual addiction to pain killers then meth brought a slow and brutal spiral to her last moments. A devastating sense of helplessness for her family. It's crushing and the pain for us all within these moments is beyond explanation.

We didn’t have the resources to give her what she truly needed. What Lisa needed, first and foremost, was stable housing. Somewhere safe, somewhere she could rest and begin to feel secure. Without that foundation, everything else felt impossible. She was scared, desperate, and trapped in survival mode, trying to meet her most basic needs while also wrestling with addiction and layers of unprocessed pain.

We tried, but help was out of reach. She was arrested a few times and then released back onto the streets. The system was overwhelmed. Treatment programs were full, and the ones that might have helped were too expensive. Private options were far beyond our means. And Lisa herself wasn’t ready—her addiction and mental turmoil held her in place, making it nearly impossible for her to accept support, even when it was offered.

The helplessness of those years is hard to put into words. Every day carried the same haunting questions: Is she still alive? Will tonight be the night we get the call? The weight of living in that limbo is something I can still feel. At the time, I went numb just to get through it. Only now, writing this, am I realizing how much of myself I had shut down.

But as I let myself remember through the tears, the restless nights, the dreams that bring her back—I’ve also reconnected with my deep love and admiration for her. Even in the darkest moments, Lisa was still my little sister. She was still the mischievous, brilliant, fiery soul who once lit up a stage. And I’m grateful that this writing has brought me closer to her again.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear her as Puck, claiming the last word as she always did…

Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon.
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite
In the church-way paths to glide.

And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate’s team
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic.

—A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V

This is how I'll remember my sister in the end, shining on stage as the mischievous and wise faerie that she was.

I miss her every day. I miss who she was and who she could have been. I’m sorry the world didn’t get to experience the full force of Lisa May—the beauty, the tenderness, the chaos, the magic, the genius.

Writing this hurts. Sharing it hurts. But silence hurts more.

So here I am, telling you about my little sister. Because maybe you’ve known someone like her. Or maybe you are someone like her. And maybe if we start saying these things out loud, without shame, without turning away, we can make a little more room for the bright, hurting ones among us. The ones who burn too hot. The ones who never quite land. The ones who deserved better.

Thank you for sitting with me in this story. It’s not an easy one to tell, and I know it’s not an easy one to read. But the act of remembering together, of naming what hurts, is its own kind of healing. By reading this, you’ve helped me carry a little of the weight, and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher

I’m back! In my two-month absence from posting here, an unexpected journey caught me off guard. After six years without any upheaval I was feeling healthy, strong, maybe even a little invincible. Then it happened.

Summer was cruising along. July camps with the returning kids felt like a homecoming, and I was turning my sights to Mad Camp at the end of the month. It felt like a huge step, but I felt ready and excited to step into this kind of community. As the date drew closer, though, I began to spin—maybe this was going to be too much.

Sleep has always been a delicate dance for me, and I worried that all the stimulation might throw things off. I know how much the story in my head shapes my health and sleep. Recently, the story has been a good one—abundance, support, calm, connectedness, a real capacity to hold pain. Solid ground.

Then came the cracks. A night or two of restless sleep. The old story of fear, shame, and dysfunction slipping back in. The weight and darkness of the world pressing heavy. A couple of nights with only two hours of rest. Suddenly, I was back in that familiar, scary space—my mind spinning out the very narrative I thought I’d outgrown. After a week of this, with some “hypomanic” rumblings, I knew what I had to do: cancel Mad Camp, or risk tipping into a full-blown event.

Mad Camp had held such promise. There was to be an altar, a ritual for those lost in these states which I was particularly excited about. I’d been preparing to share my sister’s story, finally feeling ready to face the grief and pain of her death. For years I’d tried to write about her but always turned away, afraid of being swallowed by the darkness. But those unacknowledged places kept pressing in, asking to be cared for—and here was an opportunity. I’ll post her story next.

So I dove in: gathering photos, writing obsessively, preparing for the ritual. It felt like I was finally ready to open to all of it, held by the witness and grief of others. But the realization came quickly: I am still carrying a lot of unprocessed pain. Even after all the work I’ve done, the old pattern of separating from it runs deep.

At first, it felt beautiful. Tears, reclaiming sweet memories, the sense of another step on my path. But the dark memories were there too, and it began showing up in my disrupted sleep with a few dreams really shaking me up.

It started to become clear: the growth I was anticipating this summer wasn’t going to happen at Mad Camp but right here, in facing this challenge with eyes wide open. The journey to Mad Camp suddenly shifted to a journey within.

So I cancelled. A disappointment, yes. But necessary. Calm and sleep had to come first. The signs of escalation were clear—but here’s the difference from earlier times: I understood what was happening. I knew where things could go if I didn’t ground myself. So I rolled up my sleeves and began the work.

The first step was clarity with my partner of over ten years. She’s been through this with me before, and she knows me better than anyone. Her love and support helped create the safe container I needed to sit with what was happening without being swept away by the highs and lows.

My extreme wounded parts were right at the surface—easily triggered, easily inflamed. There were moments with my partner I wanted to project,rage, and blame. In the past, this alone would have amplified everything and blinded me to the real lessons waiting to be found. This time, I could name it. We even laughed as I said hello to my angry teenage self and offered an apology to both of us. Instead of escalating, I walked away with a tear in my eye and a smile on my face—feeling myself come back to center. Taking that wild, creative, playful, wounded part by the hand and saying: I’ve got you. Let’s do this together.

I was also struck by the relative ease of sitting with the pain and discomfort rather than turning away. In the past, I’d do anything to escape, which only fueled the extremes. The “hypomanic” highs were a great place to indulge and hide. But with a bit of Buddhist sensibility now, I can hold stillness. Pay attention. Let feelings rise without running. The death and rebirth cycle feels familiar now, and I trust that if I stay present and care for myself, I’ll rise again from the ashes—just as I always have. That knowing gives shape to the chaos, reminding me that the fall and the rise are part of the same sacred rhythm.

Another shift is the story I carry about myself. Before, the darkness defined me within these moments—shame, fear, dysfunction. I was broken, just needing to figure out how to survive. Not this time. I held onto my essence. I knew who I was, even inside the storm. This clarity alone changes everything.

There was still sensitivity, still intensity, but steadier. Less chaos than my younger self. There’s a spiritual current in all of this—these heightened states teaching me to see the darkness as another stop along the winding path. Living at the edge of becoming, with little to hold on to. Beautiful and difficult, but deeply alive.

Still, sleep didn’t return easily, and at my age it’s harder to navigate without it. Sleep is where I draw the line—without it, everything unravels. So I took myself to the doctor and got a pharmaceutical aid. It helped. Quickly I turned a corner with my sleep. Thank goodness for the practices, the story I’ve built, the care I’ve learned to give myself—and now, this little tool added to the kit.

As calm and rest returned, I was able to sit with the heightened sensitivities and take in the real lessons that were up for grabs. One clear realization: everything that came before was practice for learning to keep a foot firmly in both worlds. Even as all this was happening, I was still showing up for all my responsibilities.

And yes I started the school year navigating these spaces and didn’t miss a beat. It was a smooth and beautiful beginning as I could clearly see my heightened state contributing to how easily we all settled in. School gave me a place to focus this energy. After almost 30 years of doing this the school’s health and my own are intimately entwined. The love I was giving my inner childhood parts at this time was also the love I was giving the children and parents in my care. My heightened sensitivities had a place to focus outside myself with a sense of grace and presence I could see reflecting back to me. Also, having school to focus on was a break from the ruminations that can be so difficult to slow down within these states. My own unique support space is always here when I need it.

The first few weeks of school in a way felt like an extended prayer. Everyday before and after I would light a candle and just pay attention focusing on myself, my loved ones, and the new families in my life. I found myself rediscovering the Tibetan practice of Tonglen as I was breathing in all the pain and suffering around me and breathing out empathy and compassion. Holy moments indeed! The feeling of a daily cleanse and centering with a sense of awe at my capacity to hold and love. I was struck within these moments by the force of my true potential and what holds me back.

Now I’m back from these other realms, reflecting on who I am and what I’ve learned. I feel a little rough and edgy but sleeping well. I don’t feel quite like the same person as before. There’s rawness, discomfort,renewal,sadness, heightened sensitivity. A time to gather lessons, to focus on who I am becoming, not as much who I’ve been. A newness in which comes a sense of excitement, regardless of the darkness all around.

Presently, I’m feeling grateful for the gifts received through these experiences. Even with the difficulty. Of course, ask me when I’m in the midst of struggling with sleep and I may give you a different answer. Yes, it means feeling more pain and uncertainty. But it also means more beauty, more growth. So I’ll keep growing. Keep exploring.

Maybe I’ll make it to Mad Camp next year. I hope so. But for now, I’m grateful for this unexpected growth spurt. This is just my normal. Nothing more.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher

Summer is here and along with the time off, one of the things I cherish most about this season is summer camp. But not just any camp. My camp. A one month gathering that feels more like a reunion than a program. A place where past and present preschoolers return—not just for play, but for something deeper. For many of them, it’s the highlight of their year. And while it isn’t open to the public (despite frequent pleas and requests), it’s a full house every time. I barely have enough room for all the returning kids.

This camp is a return to roots, a retreat into a familiar space where you’re known deeply and accepted fully. That’s something increasingly rare in children’s lives. When I first began these camps, partly out of necessity because I couldn’t afford not to, I offered it to kids ages 4 to 9. I figured that was the sweet spot for outdoor theater, nature adventures, and free-form play.

But almost immediately, the older kids started asking to come back. Parents would reach out and say, “This is what my child wants to do most this summer.” High praise, yes—but also a subtle signal of something deeper: childhood seems to be shrinking. Kids are feeling the pressure to grow up faster and faster, and what they’re missing is the kind of space where they can just be.

When the older kids return, the first day is always the same in the best way. I sit and listen. They talk. About school. About the hard teachers, the unexpected drama, the things that hurt and the things they’re proud of. Sometimes, they share vulnerable family stories, the kind that catch me off guard in their depth and honesty. All I can do is listen, love, and be a steady presence.

It’s heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time what some of these kids are carrying, and how instinctively they trust this space as somewhere they can lay it down.

What they’re drawn to is more than just fun or freedom. It’s the feeling of being held by a container that knows them. A place where they aren’t expected to change, perform, or prove themselves. I can almost hear it when they arrive: a collective breath of relief. They’re home.

In many ways, I’ve been following that same pull in my own life—the deep, often unspoken longing to belong somewhere fully, without having to explain or edit myself. That longing sustained me during years of inner struggle and now forms the foundation of my healing: a commitment to show up as all of me, and to build the kind of community where that’s possible. Just like the kids, I’m learning what it means to come home.

For these older kids something new is emerging, as well. They’re not just here to play. They’re here to serve. To help with the younger kids. I don’t even have to ask. Something internal is being satisfied—something that doesn’t get nourished enough in the competitive, single-age classrooms they’ve spent the last nine months in.

That impulse to serve and to give from a place of lived experience is alive in me, too. It’s become a vital thread in my own journey of healing: this growing sense that what I’ve walked through has value, and that I now have something real to offer because of it. Similar to the older kids, I’ve discovered a quiet joy in turning my struggle and growth into something purposeful — something vital to my current health.

So with our container set it was time to let the fun begin! But No one was asking, “What are we doing today?” Instead, I’m asking, “What are you feeling inspired to do?” That’s the difference. I’m here to hold the container you all know and love. It’s up to you to create the magic.

This past week, I had sixteen kids, ranging in age from four to twelve. The older ones essentially ran the show. Central to our space is our outdoor theater, a stage where anything is possible. You might even find me there, changing my identity mid-scene to help carry the story. I do a lot less “teaching” in the traditional sense—but a whole lot of participating. That’s where the real teaching happens anyway.

My Wise Fool archetype gets to come alive here—helping, guiding, playing, but never controlling. This is a space where teaching happens through co-creation, where connection deepens through make-believe, and where the health of the community grows through shared laughter.

Maybe that’s another reason the kids keep coming back: I know how to enter their imaginary worlds in a way that respects their logic and creative needs with one eye on the deeper lessons available within these realms. Partly a gift born from my own lived experiences—ones that were once pathologized and labeled as bipolar. But here, in this playful space, I’m not stuck in a disease model. My transformation is front and center. Instead, I’m feeling a deep sense of purpose and appreciation for the very sensitivities that once made me feel broken, scared, and alone.

Yesterday, the older kids came in with a plan: they were going to create an epic performance for the younger ones. No one asked them to. It was all their idea. And the younger kids? They didn’t want to do anything else but find a spot in the shade and watch.

It took all day just to plan it and the actual performance didn’t happen until the day after. But the process was the show.

The younger ones sat mesmerized, soaking in every moment of group collaboration—watching their big-kid heroes brainstorm, disagree, adapt, laugh, and problem-solve. It was a masterclass in how to be in community. They learned about compromise, patience, creative expression, and how to move through conflict without losing connection. Lessons that no curriculum can fully teach. Lessons a lot of us adults could use!!

This is the kind of magic that unfolds when we stop over-structuring our children’s time. When we resist the pressure to constantly prepare them for the “real world” and instead give them space to imagine and explore. Yes, idle time can be risky—kids might get bored and create a little trouble. But it’s also the fertile soil for creativity, emotional development, and group cohesion. A little trouble isn’t a bad thing depending on how we relate to it as adults.

When children are given the chance to unwind with their imagination together, guided just enough, something beautiful happens. They remember who they are. And we, the adults lucky enough to witness it, remember too.

So here’s to the return—to camp, to community, to ourselves.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

I Just wrapped up my 28th year of doing the preschool! We finish the year with a sweet graduation ritual for our departing elders and the much anticipated parent/child talent show. After sharing some gratitude and love for all with some shared tears for us adults, I juggled while singing one of the kids favorite songs to warm things up for our talent show. The combo of vulnerability and playfulness brings a sense of sacredness and safety as the parents surprise me with their carefree approach to the moment. I’m always delighted with the unexpected talents that show up for our event. The Wise Fool is here!

After proceedings comes a dramatic shift for me. A liminal space opens up as I sit within the sudden stillness as the last families depart. As I sit and breath into the moment tears begin to flow. A sense of loss for the departing kids I’ve known for 3 years. True friends I won’t be seeing much anymore. But the loss is also something deeper. My own lost childhood and struggles are woven in. So I let myself feel . And then unexpectedly comes the laughter. Gentle, grounding, familiar. The Wise Fool has arrived and they know.

They know when to grieve and when to play, the alchemy of the two a potent combo.

They know the value of intuition and unconventional thinking.

They understand the importance of uncomfortable truths revealed through play and laughter.

They see that social norms and expectations are often barriers to our true, heart-centered potential.

They know that children are too often missed as real teachers of forgotten truths.

And they know why I still find moments of hope and joy despite the darkness of these times.

It’s because I spend regular time with children.

And being with them—truly being with them—is like standing at the edge of the beginning again. It’s like witnessing a human reset. A return. A remembering. A chance to reconnect with the Wise Fool.

Children are born radiant. Heart-centered, community-oriented, empathic to the core. They are wildly creative and endlessly curious, moved by an instinct to explore, express, and connect. They long to be seen, not for who we want them to be, but for who they already are. And in that longing, there’s something so ancient and sacred. Something calling out directly from the Mystery.

Every day, they remind me of who we once were. Who we might still be beneath the layers of fear, distraction, and disconnection we’ve picked up along the way.

Their presence has been a quiet teacher to me over the years. A mirror. A compass. Little by little, their wisdom—yes, wisdom—has helped me begin to reclaim some of the essence I had lost. And with that essence, a kind of healing. A growing sense of wholeness. A fragile but real return to myself. The Wise Fool front and center once more with moments of real hope and joy.

It’s ongoing. I’m still learning. Still unlearning. Still a work in progress with lots of grief to be with, as well.

So, here’s my plan going forward as an educator and guide during dark times.

Step aside.
Make space.
Let nature do what it knows how to do.

Community values and matters of the heart will be our foundation.

Individual creative expression will be our guide.

Children don’t need to be filled with our fears, or shaped by our wounds. They need space to breathe. To play. To fail and flourish. To grow wild and wise in their own time. The more we get out of their way, the more we realize they’re already carrying the seeds of everything they need and everything we’re longing for .

And while we step back and allow that natural unfolding, let’s do something else—something urgent, tender, and deeply human.

Let’s begin the work of rediscovering our own childhood essence. The parts of us that still know how to feel deeply, imagine wildly, and love without armor.

Let’s remember who we were, before the world told us who to be.
Before we forgot.
Before it’s too late.

The Wise Fool within knows! Just say hello and let the reclamation begin.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

Today in the playground a child made a mistake during a heated exchange with a friend and acted out physically. Out of the ordinary for this child. Their mom was gone on a trip to care for an elderly parent, a major factor within this moment. There was only one thing to do—I scooped the child up, quickly reminding them they are not in trouble and had every right to be angry. This information creates an immediate sense of safety. We’ll revisit other strategies to work with those big feelings and check in with their friend later. Overwhelmed with emotions they fell into my arms with nothing to do on my part but hold. One of those typical preschool moments that always feels so sacred, so important to get it right.

As I held them, their body trembling and sobbing against mine, I felt something unexpected arise. A flicker of another child—my own inner one—pressing up from deep within. Not in memory exactly, but in presence. I was holding one child, but feeling two as we seemingly fell into each other's arms.

The crying child in my lap needed exactly what I needed when I was young: to be seen, soothed, and held without shame for needing comfort. But back then, there was no teacher on the playground for me like the one I’ve become. No one attuned to the cry beneath the behavior. No one to say, “You’re not too much.”

In that moment, I felt like a bridge across time between a child in my care and a child I used to be. And for a second, my chest caught with that familiar ache. The ache of being present to what I needed at times and didn't get. And the miracle of being able to give it now.

I think many of us in caregiving roles carry our wounded parts into the work, and if we’re honest, that’s often where our gifts live. Our sensitivity is not just a trait—it’s the echo of a need unmet, now transformed into empathy and attunement.

This is the real curriculum in my school: not just play and literacy and social skills, but healing. For the kids, yes. But also for me. The more I am tuned into my care the better I am at showing up for the children in my life. Here lies the symbiotic relationship as the personal benefits of being a caregiver allow me to stay close to my wounded parts which in turn creates more sensitivity to my work.

My experience in this work has shown me that rather than questioning whether people with similar lived experiences to mine belong in caregiving roles, we should be actively inviting them in. The healing and transformation that can happen for both caregiver and client is profound. When someone who was once labeled as “sick” is instead seen as gifted, that shift alone can be healing. It reframes the narrative from one of pathology to one of purpose. This is not the story many of us heard early on, especially within the biomedical model. But it’s a radical and necessary rewrite—one that can potentially bring untold value to our communities.

The most meaningful experience I’ve had with a therapist was one who proudly identified with similar experiences to mine. Within one session I realized I had been needing this all along. Someone who’s been there and done that with an intimate understanding of my experiences based within their own. We were two wounded healers creating something sacred well beyond symptoms and pathology. It was revelatory to me! Unfortunately, this isn’t encouraged and practiced within the systems we usually go to for help. My insurance did not cover this care as those who want to practice from this model must step outside the system to offer this kind of support.

I’ve come to trust over the years that my unique sensitivities don't disqualify me from being a caregiver. They make me a better one! I’m not just caring for the kids; I’m also caring for the hurt little boy in me. Both entwined in a daily dance of care and holding. It is essentially this alchemy that makes my school so popular and why I am so respected in my community. My little secret for now.

So today, we both cried. One out loud. One quietly, inside. And both of us were held.

That’s the sacred reciprocity of this work: I care for the children in front of me, while also tending to the child I once was. What once felt like a liability—my sensitivity, my wounds—have become my greatest asset.

This is the quiet magic of caregiving when it’s rooted in empathy and lived experience. It doesn’t just change others. It changes us.

We become the grown-ups we once needed.
We rewrite the story.
And in doing so, we heal together.

Much Love,
The Mad Preschool Teacher
He/Him

When I step into my workspace each day, it’s much more than a job. It's more like I’m entering a magical realm of imagination. My guides? A lively group of children, ages 3 to 6, and just as importantly, my own inner child who all along has had a strong say in choosing this path. Together, we journey to delightful places filled with over sized problems to solve, epic battles to fight, and the solidarity of friendship to carry us through the chaos.

A child’s imagination is much more than play—it’s a powerful cognitive tool. It helps them generate new ideas, visualize new possibilities, and make sense of the world. Imagination nurtures creativity, problem solving, emotional intelligence, and, perhaps most importantly, a sense of belonging and shared purpose. It teaches us how to live in community and how to offer our gifts while staying sensitive to the gifts and needs of others.

This imaginative power isn’t just something I witness in children, it’s something I rely on for my own mental well-being. I use it to create a reality that fits me better than the rigid and fear-based narratives of the biomedical model. Rather than seeing my sensitivities as symptoms to be treated, I see them as signposts guiding me on a mythopoetic journey filled with daily battles, personal transformation, wonder, and care.

While the traditional mental health model might label this as delusional or dangerous, I see it differently. I’m not running from reality. I’m creating one that allows for healing, truth, connection, and even joy at times. This game of imagination doesn’t just work for me. It saves me! Especially when others join in.

Revisiting my first experience I can see now these imaginary realms were ready and waiting to help me move through a journey of healing and renewal. But I needed help in seeing what was before me. Someone who had a map from their own experiences. Some guidance in how to find calm while not pacifying the potential of these imaginary realms. But all I had was the biomedical model and my potential access and understanding of these realms receded into the background as it wasn’t long before I was in the back of a police car on my way to a month of forced hospitalization. This life changing trauma defining and holding me back for a lot of my adult life.

The creative force that can emerge in extreme mental states is well documented. What if, instead of rushing to pacify these states, we explored the potential within them—through imagination, through myth, through shared storytelling? My experience tells me this approach can be deeply supportive and there’s growing evidence to back this up.

John Weir Perry argues in his book Trials of the Visionary Mind that acute psychotic experiences can best be understood as a natural process of the psyche’s self organizing and self healing efforts. He suggests that mythic themes and visionary experiences, when understood empathetically, can lead to personal growth and renewal rather than being pathologized.

Diabasis House, a project founded by Perry in 1970’s, offered a unique approach to treating first-episode psychosis without medication. It was a residential program where individuals with early psychosis could live in a supportive, unlocked home. The program's success challenged conventional psychiatric models and demonstrated the potential for recovery through supportive relationships and self-healing processes.

I recently took the core curriculum at The Institute for The Development of The Human Arts(IDHA). One thing that instantly drew me to this space was IDHA’s focus on centering lived experience. Module 2 entitled Lived Experience Through Storytelling was a celebration for me. These aren’t sick people leading these discussions, they are deeply empathic and visionary with some gifts for us all if we choose to pay attention. I was struck by the clear similarity between this space and the realms of imagination with the kids in my life. I wanted to jump through the screen and start playing!

Perhaps, this is the true gift from our lived experience, having a stronger connection to these lost childhood spaces to bring back to the broken world as a healthier way forward. The common thread of our childhood trauma, a tender gateway to these realms of imagination and visions of better ways to live. With some attention and agency this access to our childhood places has the potential to be a potent aid in healing and transformation, individually and collectively.

It’s easy to argue that one root cause of our collective adult distress is the disappearance of spaces that nourish imagination and our failure to recognize how vital they are to our well-being. The dominant cultural narrative is built around fear, division, consumption, and disconnection. Imagination is dismissed as impractical, even dangerous(especially when we imagine together), as survival becomes the daily grind. The capitalist game, frankly, just plain sucks—especially if you’re not among the privileged few.

In the end we are left with basic issues of inequity and social justice at the core of our collective mental well-being. Who has time to dream when basic survival is the daily game? Who has the space to imagine a healthier way of being without basic needs being met? If we are to reclaim these imaginary spaces and dream of a healthier community it seems we can’t help but become activists first as we attempt to co-create the space to dream together again.

And who better to help us with a new dream than those labeled sick and diseased along with the modeling of these childhood spaces. We’ve lost our way and these children and mad folks may very well hold the key. Much more than lost innocence, our very essence, health, and vitality is what I feel everyday within this exposure.

A few simple rules govern these realms at school: “You can’t say you can’t play,” and “You can be whoever you want in our game.” These may sound whimsical, but they’re radical in practice. Both within the realms of childhood and our adult spaces !

Some kids take time to adjust—especially to the second rule. Early this school year, one child struggled with the idea of multiple moms in a game where a boy always wanted to be a mom. But over time, and with lots of modeling on my part, their rigid views softened. I had a lot of fun pretending to be a mom in the game with something internal being nourished, as well. They discovered the beauty in imagining other possibilities and their imaginary spaces much expanded within the safety of our cardinal rules.

Recently, all the boys decided to be moms on a mission to care for anyone injured in a dragon attack, while the girls patrolled the playground for more dragons with sticks as weapons. An awe inspiring scene! Typically, After the boys settle into our realm of imagination in certain situations they naturally start deferring to the wisdom of the feminine, while more actively nurturing their own feminine side. Once modeled and safe to do so this is what starts to happen. Nature taking its course is how I see it. I feel this within my own transformation, as well. Are we stunting our evolution spinning within these broken patriarchal systems and outdated binary roles? The answer is obvious!

One gift of these daily adventures is the forced break from my own ruminations. It’s a reset. When I return to my problems after a day immersed in these imaginative worlds, everything seemingly shifts. The problems are still there, but they no longer run the show. I can usually see the next step more clearly. My imagination front and center again as the old pattern and intensity of fear and survival loosens its grip.

It turns out that dragon battles and leaning into my inner mother has real mental health benefits.

In Alfredo Zotti’s book entitled Got Bipolar? An insider’s guide to Managing Life Effectively, he speaks to method acting and theater in general as a way to regulate emotions and start imagining healthier ways of being within his multidimensional non medical care approach. He makes a compelling case as he credits some of these creative outlets to his recovery and transformation of story. This makes a lot of sense with what I’ve experienced in my own care and what I’ve learned from the children in my life.

Over the years, I’ve created a few characters at school that help me teach emotional and social intelligence within these realms—or more accurately they found me. These archetypal forces are available to us all.

My benevolent king holds court with a kind heart, deep respect for creative expression, and a fiery insistence on the higher laws of community. My inner jaguar will show up at times to aid the king in these goals. I’ve developed a particular jaguar snarl that’s become a class-wide signal. If a child hears it and finds me staring at them, they know it’s time to refocus, to include, to adjust. No words required. No adult lecturing. I’m meeting them in their realm to teach these values. Much more powerful than the lecturing adult. The game resumes, more just and whole. All I had to do was snarl!

These archetypes have become vital in my inner life too. My king and jaguar appear in personal struggles, helping me bring compassion, accountability, and structure to my inner world. Not long ago, I found myself snarling inwardly when I wasn’t showing up with integrity in a difficult situation. My jaguar always silently tracking and stalking. It brought me instantly to my centered self and the need to own my choices and adjust. My jaguar keeps me honest and helps me jump out of the smaller ruminating me that can still trip me up in moments of stress and uncertainty.

Every day I return to this magical realm—not just for the children, but for myself. And each day, it returns me to something essential: healing usually isn’t clinical, linear, or logical. Sometimes it’s playful. Sometimes it’s fierce. Sometimes it’s really sad. Sometimes its scary as hell. Sometimes it’s a jaguar snarl or a circle of boys mothering the wounded after a dragon attack.

What I’ve come to understand is that mental health isn’t just about managing different states of mind—it’s about having access to worlds where truth can be spoken, where connection is real, and where it is safe for all to play.

What if we created more spaces like this—not just for children, but for adults too? Places where individual imagination is honored, where archetypes guide us, and where the boundaries between play and healing dissolve. Group work with a theatrical twist! My newest character for this game being the mad preschool teacher with these posts attracting others to play along. Real Medicine for me!!

These realms may look like fantasy from the outside, but inside them live the very tools we need to survive, to transform, and to belong. Another world is not only possible—it already exists in the games some of us dare to play. The real work is to keep playing, keep imagining, and keep the door open for others to join.

“We are souls in the flesh

specters caught between

the limbo of yesterday and tomorrow

illusions of the present

imposters in these skins

I am rain blown sideways by the wind

My art, my love, my hunger slows the descent

I spread out like a shadow on the pavement

stomped on by what is, saved by what is not

but is and is not are so fickle

Reality and dreams dress up as one another

playing musical chairs in the mind

and if you are so lucky that a dream seizes

the throne and turns your mind into an imagination, do not revolt, do not resist

Become your madness

Become the fool”

― Connor Judson Garrett, Become The Fool

A sign of the times in my classroom is what I like to call banned book story time. Of course, it’s not presented that way to the kids at school. For them, these are simply beautifully written stories which are woven into the fabric of a classroom library built on inclusion, empathy, amplifying the voices of the oppressed, and the celebration of human diversity.

As an educator of young children, my most important goal is to help deepen their sensitivity to the world and its vast range of human expression—especially to those who don’t fit the sterile, narrow definition of “normal” that is increasingly being forced upon us. It is these voices that are often silenced and excluded that must be told. So when a book gets banned, it often finds itself front and center on the bookshelf in my classroom. A banned book usually contains exactly the kind of message we need more of. And it turns out, these are some of the best books for teaching empathy and awareness.

Here are a few titles currently under scrutiny. Books some are trying to remove from classrooms and libraries, and which are now before the U.S. Supreme Court, with a small group of parents seeking opt-out provisions when these stories are shared:

• Prince & Knight is a vivid fairy tale featuring a brave prince, a fierce dragon, and a tender love story that ends with a joyful, supportive celebration. This is the kind of kingdom I’d like to live in.

• Love, Violet tells the story of a shy girl with a crush on her classmate Mira. It’s a tender and beautifully illustrated tale about friendship, first love, and the courage to express your feelings.

• Uncle Bobby’s Wedding follows a young girl who worries that her favorite uncle is getting married and that she’ll lose him. But through getting to know his partner, she comes to realize she’s gaining another wonderful family member—not losing one. Who wouldn’t want two awesome uncles?

• Born Ready is the real-life story of Penelope, a transgender boy, who navigates the journey of sharing his truth with the world. His resilience, bravery, and honesty inspire readers of all ages. Penelope is clearly a powerhouse, with something unique and vital to share.

A theme that runs through all these stories is the importance of supportive families and communities. In Prince & Knight, there’s a moment I love to linger on with the kids—a scene where the prince and his knight are surrounded by kind, smiling faces. “This is community health,” I tell them. “Everyone has a part to play and sometimes that means being a little uncomfortable as we stand up for what’s right.” Without fail, those words spark a flood of conversation. Our instinct to care for and defend one another is natural and strong, especially in children. No amount of censorship can erase that.

I feel incredibly lucky to work in a progressive community where this work is welcomed and valued. But I have the deepest admiration for the teachers and librarians who live in more conservative places, where simply sharing a story can come with real risk. These educators haven’t lost their childlike hearts or their sense of justice. In a moment of cultural division and fear, they are courageous and inspiring. Revolutionaries armed with picture books and library cards!

So we light a candle in the dark, and we read. We read about boys named Penelope, about girls who fall in love, about families made stronger through love and difference. These stories aren’t dangerous—they’re human. And when our collective health and humanity are at stake, they must be told.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher (He/Him)

Who would've thought that, at almost 60 years old, my journey would lead me to a sacred quest for heels? No not that, and so what if I did like to cross dress. This is about a daughter and her father. A relationship that sits at the very center of everything.

During a recent visit to her new home in Southern California, instead of hitting the beach or seeing the sights, we were on a mission to find the perfect pair of heels for an upcoming wedding.

As I’ve shared before, our relationship hasn’t always been easy. Much of the past strain was tied to my own unprocessed pain—the extremes of my unrealized traumatized parts and mental health challenges. It’s no surprise that as I’ve found a healthier place within myself, something has shifted between us. I’m cool again! I’m more present, more embodied—and who better to pick up on that than my daughter?

After years of rejection, to share laughter with her and just hang out on her terms was nothing short of a holy experience. So, heels it is and I couldn’t be happier to be part of the quest.

On the first night of my visit, I went back to my rental and sat with this new energy between us. I could feel something deep and ancient moving inside. My superpower, fully present, locked in on the sacredness of what was unfolding. But it was more than just father and daughter reconnecting. It felt as though the ancestors were there too, bearing witness to the possibility of breaking generational cycles. And all of it, everything needed, was right there in that moment.

Of course, my own father wound surfaced, too. I hadn’t visited that space in a while, and suddenly I found myself plunged into the darkest depths. It really fucking hurts to have a father who’s still alive and wants nothing to do with you. I don’t acknowledge this enough. He’s been mostly absent for the better part of my adult life. His blanket excuse? “Everyone on your mom’s side is crazy!” Sure, there's some truth there but in the end, it's no excuse.

The connections were clear as I sat with all these emotions. My internal parts aligned and ready, finding genuine excitement for the day to come and more than willing to quietly welcome my own father wound to the quest.

One thing I've learned through the years of rejection from my daughter is the transformative power of loving something unconditionally. It turns out that was necessary medicine for me. The call was to keep showing up, doing my own work, even when it hurt. To keep trying. To take the rejection not as defeat, but as motivation. Not looking away, distracting myself, but honestly being with it all. Letting go and surrendering to the pain became the way.

My own dad couldn’t do that. I needed to vent, to blame, when I was younger, but he just wasn’t up for that. His love was very conditional, as I can see now in retrospect, his own unresolved wounded parts blocking the way.

It’s okay Dad I’m sorting it out, and with it some compassion and understanding for your struggles. But I’m still working on that, and this is about me and my girl!

To feel unconditional love, and to have a place to give it, is transcendent. A place to step outside of oneself and serve another. It feels foundational to my mental health, at least from where I stand now. But it started with learning to love myself in such a way and bringing all the pieces back into alignment.

This is where my personal map shifts. Where the years of inner work prepared me to receive the quiet presence of the ancestors, and to embrace this unexpected quest. A sacred duty lay before me and all that was needed was some authenticity, a little vulnerability, and a willingness to meet her exactly where she is. And in private, to allow my own grief to move through me.

Heels, it turns out, became a sacred quest. An offering, a bridge, a ritual for a father and daughter to continue on their journey of re-connection and healing.

On our way to the mall we encounter some of the familiar awkward moments, not sure what to say, fumbling with silence and topics for conversation. But there were also long stretches of just joking around, laughing, making fun of life and all the absurdity surrounding us. I was more naturally just being myself and letting it all hang out than I can ever remember with her. I delighted in these moments communing with my daughter's strengths and essence, as my gifts were showing up naturally, as well. She’s wise beyond her years, intuitive, appreciates simple things, a very sensible and balanced person, and funny. The laughter was a clear sign of the shifts in our relationship.

I can't remember the last time I was in a mall. A strange place indeed . A plastic superficial ode to consumerism and, what I hope , are the last stages of capitalism. A facade to the crumbling systems beyond the storefronts and the real suffering people and the planet are experiencing because of our perceived need for all this crap. But the quest at hand was most important — not the time to get on my soapbox. Dad in lecture mode wouldn’t serve the sacred task at hand.

The mall was open air as I appreciated feeling the warmth of the morning sun and the ease of finding magnetic north straight in line with our first destination. The elements helped me tune into the possibility for real magic on our quest. I imagined a sword by my side and my real potential for violence to protect what's most precious to me from the darkness all around. There’s something powerful about being with and owning that feeling. A sign that I am learning to be healthy, confident, and more fully alive!

And that sword! I had lost it since the epic battles of childhood. It reappeared in my early forties as I was in the midst of a true dark night of the soul. My life was seemingly falling apart, insomnia had me trapped and my daughter didn’t want anything to do with me. I learned to get on my hands and knees and pray in these moments. I learned to cry and grieve again—and there by my side the sword appeared. But I had to learn how to use it on myself first. Not so much a weapon but a tool to cut through the bullshit, the false agreements, the stories that weren’t mine and get to the heart of the matter. Unconditional love and a higher level of truth telling within and without would bring my new tool to life when needed. A tool to keep my own wound open and accessible, as well as the fearlessness to speak truth, even when uncomfortable to do so. I like my sword and I’m still learning how to wield it with grace. My internal parts appreciate the radical honesty and clarity of my sword, as my centered self has found this new tool invaluable.

We started at a store with heels priced between $500 and $1000. Some normal dad reactions kicked in as our shared sensibilities and limited funds had us moving along quickly. Along the way, I was struck by how much we have in common, but also by her unique and quietly powerful way of being. Yes, we are father and daughter working to repair our relationship. But we’re also just two adults fumbling through life, with some shared ground between us. Focusing on that feels like the way forward.

She clearly knows her way around the mall. I followed her through each store like I used to on our backpacking adventures when she was young. Her fearless and excited, charging ahead toward whatever was around the bend, my love a silent safety net close behind.

Eventually, we found some heels—under $100. She liked my idea of wearing them carefully and returning them after the wedding. Gotta stick it to the man whenever you can. (A little soapboxing, I guess, can’t be helped.)

The highlight of the trip, along with getting to know her serious boyfriend. A good-hearted young man with lots of integrity who clearly cares deeply for her. He may not realize it but his sword is still by his side. They’ve got a sweet thing going, and I’m celebrating right along with them. In a world that often feels numb and unkind, love is such a rare and precious gift!

To my surprise and delight, heels and heals merged that day offering father and daughter just what we needed. These are the moments where I feel myself anchored in time, aware of what’s come before, what’s still ahead, and my true place in the here and now. Magnetic north is easier to find these days. The sword is still at my side if needed. But now I carry it with a renewed clarity of what truly matters and how to properly wield such a tool.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher ( He/Him)

A much needed moment of stillness today! A warm cup of tea, a burning candle, some soft music pulling at my heartstrings and the gift of tears I was in need of had arrived. I wept for the people in my life who struggle, for humanity at large, for what's been lost, accompanied by a palpable sense of awe in being able to feel in this moment with this body. What a gift! One of my superpowers it turns out but it took a long time to figure this out.

My multi dimensional, non medical self care approach requires that I am regularly finding this place in myself and checking in. The real turning point for me and my mental health was when I learned to cry again. But it’s more than just crying - it’s understanding that my emotional depth is a primary strength and a sign of my relative health. One of the questions the people close to me know to ask when they sense I may be getting out of balance is, “When was the last time you cried?” If it’s been a while, I know I need to find the stillness I found today and get this vast emotional landscape moving. A vital sign of health for me and a great way to avoid the grand event!

During my younger years, I buried these emotions out of shame of what I thought a “real man” should be. Here is the heart of the matter for me: My struggle was rooted in trying to escape the feelings I thought were wrong with me. The persistence of learned anxiety from my encounters with the biomedical narrative pushed me further away from the truth of my emotional nature. The anxiety was just the flip side of these unacknowledged sensitivities.

My sensitivities needed to be nurtured, not suppressed. My heightened experiences labeled as part of my hypomania were primarily a reaction to the repression of these feelings. I’ve come to realize that to navigate these sensitivities without medication I must care for these places and allow myself to feel and be guided by what comes up. A spiritual path unfolded before me and relearning to cry was the gateway.

I recall my early attempts at therapy, where the first questions were always: What’s wrong? What are your issues? I entered these sessions disempowered, desperately wanting someone else to tell me what was wrong and what I should do. I was quickly given an answer, which, in hindsight, was detrimental to my mental health. My emotions were primarily framed as symptoms. I was told I could become a danger to myself without medication. This only worsened my anxiety, making it harder to explore the dysfunction and trauma I needed to understand.

There were definitely things I needed to start exploring but my superpower was needed consciously by my side to do the necessary heavy lifting. The self compassion and heart wisdom from my empowered superpower was a vital missing ingredient to the transformation waiting to happen. What if the initial question was what are your gifts? Maybe your challenging feelings are manifesting from lack of insight and care into these strengths? How about we come up with some practices to support these gifts? It’s easy to see the possibility of transformation revealing itself within a few simple questions.

Someone recently asked me, “What is your favorite gift?” I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that before. After a few tears, of course, with a smile on my face I answered emphatically: Empathy! A sense of celebration comes with saying this out loud. This question was asked in the context of our shared experiences that have been labeled bipolar in the past. This was never a question during my first experiences or any of the times I looked to the biomedical model for help. It’s actually thought to encourage the crazy with such questions and ideas from the biomedical model. But my transformation from disease to gift with challenges has brought me to the importance of not only regularly connecting with my heart but learning to own it as the gift it is. The question and the overall framework such a question is asked from is fundamental to how I view and care for my mental health.

It brings me to my first experience and what I was already denying about myself as these events unfolded. My superpower had long been buried and was pushing for release. At 16, I was suddenly thrust far beyond my sense of self. My ego was shattered. The reality I was being raised in was falling apart. A confusing and terrorizing place to be as a teenager who, until then, was living in one seemingly solid reality. I realize now at an early age I started denying aspects of my true nature that didn’t fit the mold - Big boys don’t cry! It was as if a dam had burst with a flood of emotions and sensitivities. My true nature could not be contained. There was a lot of beauty in this moment, but it was quickly overshadowed by the dominant realities reaction, the void of models and context, along with the anxiety and terror to follow.

An emotional young man didn’t fit into the narrow definition of “normal” being presented. My emotions were seen primarily as symptoms. The crushing sense of empathy, just a symptom. I learned quickly to keep some of my experiences to myself or risk being labeled “nuts”. The story of sickness and disease took hold and lingered for much of my life, creating more difficulty than the actual experiences themselves. Here is the beginning of only one possible manifestation of what is possible. A difficult road taking me farther away from any sense of healing, transformation, and actualization of gifts. I forgot how to cry and it really wasn't until I reacquainted myself with this innate part of myself that I began to heal and transform. But it didn’t need to take most of my adult life!

I needed the right kind of community. Peers with similar lived experiences, for sure! But where were the sensitive male elders? Where were the men who knew how to cry? The men who understood that vulnerability is a path to true masculine power? Part of what I really needed in the beginning was a circle of men that recognized these gifts within themselves and me.

In my mid-20s, I began searching for these men. I joined my first men’s group, where I was the youngest, surrounded by men grappling with midlife issues or the challenges of being gay in a heteronormative world. I learned a lot from these men. Iron John by Robert Bly had just been published, and I devoured it, along with the wave of books on male issues that followed. The metaphor of the wild man trapped in the pond resonated deeply. My emotional wild nature, buried for so long, was crying out from beneath the surface, waiting to be released. At the time the only true uninhibited glimpses of my wild man came during some of my heightened experiences that were labeled hypomania.

Witnessing a grown man grapple with his feelings was revelatory to me within these circles. I could see my own wild, repressed emotional self trying to awaken, but the anxiety and trauma from my early experiences, along with the singular story of the biomedical model, acted as a solid wall between my head and heart. I was blocked from embracing the gifts within me, caught in the struggle to reconnect my mind and emotions. The head and the heart severed and unsure of how to reconnect. The masculine disease of our times!

To transform collectively from the trauma we’re all going through, us dudes either need to figure out how to cry again or get out of the way. Maybe, we just need to get out of the way, regardless. We’re all stuck within systems that are acting out the unresolved issues of these patriarchal wounds. The severed head and heart wreaking havoc on the planet and anyone that doesn't fit the mold.

We are all in desperate need of some new stories and myths! The preschool teacher in me thinks it’s time for a new male superhero. One that knows how to cry, connected to his own wounding, a humbled ego, knows how to defer to the wisdom of the divine feminine, the wisdom of the oppressed. Not here to save the day but to acknowledge and genuinely feel the generational trauma inflicted by our dying patriarchal systems. A man strong enough to acknowledge this pain and his part. A man willing to step aside and be led, not lead. The power of shared grief is understood as needed alchemy. Maybe some fancy tights, a medicine pouch, and a Kleenex holster to help fit in with the other superheroes?

There’s usually a few moments each school year when the kids witness me with tears. Sometimes It’s grief. Sometimes it’s awe as I witness pure human potential unfolding around me. As an educator, I see these occasions as some of the best teaching moments. Usually, the kids will circle around me with intense curiosity and support. A sacred moment, especially, for the boys. I'll take my time in these moments making sure all questions are answered as I try to model a healthier way of seeing the strengths of masculinity and how important tuning in to our rich emotional landscape is to being human.

The families at the school all know about my superpower; it's why they’re here. It’s why my program is so popular and has a wait list. It’s rare to find a sensitive dude caring for your child, and many families recognize how important it is to expose their children to this.

Part of the health I experience in my life today comes from doing heart-centered work that is deeply respected. My business model requires me to care for and emphasize these gifts. My work and spiritual path are entwined, mutually supportive. At this point, they are almost inseparable. Finding this path has been crucial to my transformation and ongoing health. To be seen and valued for one’s gifts is good for your mental health!

Here’s a few visual testimonials from several of my current kiddos. My superpower in action! In both I’m throwing hearts at everyone. The one with the frown is throwing fire hearts. I like how they represent the balance of fierce grace and gentle grace needed to do this work, and the work of loving and caring for one’s self. I can ride the rainbow and gently throw hearts or, if needed, I’m not afraid to put some heat behind it.

In embracing my emotional depth, I have not only found a path to personal healing but also to a more holistic way of living and working. The journey has led me to understand that vulnerability is not a weakness but a wellspring of strength, a cornerstone for growth, and a vital component of true masculinity. As I continue to learn, I hold space for my emotions, knowing they are the bridge to my deeper self, the key to connection, and the foundation for a more compassionate world. Perhaps the real superpower we all possess is the courage to feel and to share with others—especially when it is hardest to do so. It is this ongoing journey, rooted in heart and vulnerability, that holds the potential to heal not only ourselves but the collective spirit of those around us.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher

He/Him

How about an alternative version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) that shifts the focus to those trying to define and control what "normal" is? A version that highlights the absurdities of the world we accept as normal. Let’s start with a new category: a condition for people so fixated on a narrow and sterile view of normalcy that it leads to extreme states of fear, hate, and the normalization of violence toward others. This is a dangerous condition that should be treated with everything the biomedical model has to offer—electroshock therapy, highly addictive drugs, conversion therapy, forced hospitalization... let's do whatever it takes before more people get hurt! More profits for big pharma, as well! We could call this condition Magaphrenia.

You may think this sounds ridiculous, but here are just a few examples from the DSM's history, showing how psychiatry has pathologized some truly bizarre things in the past—and in some cases, still does.

• Women were once routinely diagnosed with hysteria, a diagnosis that wasn’t removed from the DSM until 1980. This was a useful diagnosis in the 1950’s when women were having some normal reactions to what was expected of them.

• Homosexuality was once listed as a sociopathic personality disorder. It wasn’t until 1987 that this was removed from the DSM.

• Psychiatry’s long history of racism is well-documented. Drapetomania was once described as a condition causing slaves to feel an intense urge to escape. Benjamin Rush, often called the “father of American psychiatry” and a signer of the Declaration of Independence, described Negroes as suffering from an affliction called Negritude—a supposed mild form of leprosy with a cure that was, quite shockingly, to become white.

• Prolonged Grief Disorder(PSG) is a new addition to the DSM-5. Naltrexone is being considered for this new disorder. A drug currently used for addiction. For an adult if you are grieving the loss of a child for more than a year you suddenly have this condition on day 366. A child has 6 months before it becomes a disorder.

They're definitely making it harder to distinguish the real disorders from our made up version.

Perhaps, making up new disorders should be described in our new DSM as an actual disorder. Pathologizing Everything Syndrome (PES).

How about a diagnosable condition for people who don’t identify with any conditions. Granted this condition is becoming rare but it must be very lonely without such an identification. This could be a windfall for the pharmaceutical industry!

In the current DSM, narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) is a condition characterized by grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy. A clear blind spot that seems self reflective on aspects of psychiatry itself. I don’t think this gets diagnosed enough and our world is effectively being run by people with this condition. Perhaps, we can just rename this one for our new version. How about White Supremacy Disorder or Trump Syndrome?

Just a little humor to point out the insanity of how we view our mental well being, how normal is defined for us, and how nuts it all really looks!

Other ideas welcome!

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher

He/Him

I often wonder how my first experience could have been different. Could I have avoided the trauma and negative story shaped by the biomedical model that weighed me down for much of my life? Could I have avoided the learned anxiety that followed the traumatic aftermath of forced hospitalization, alongside the dark narrative perpetuated by a culture and psychiatric model that views these experiences as a dangerous life long disease?

It took most of my adult life to learn how to recognize and care for these challenging gifts. But could I have figured this out from the beginning? At the start, all I had was the biomedical model and the panic of the adults around me. There is a clear distinction in my mind between my initial experience and the trauma that stemmed from my first care and interactions with the system in place. No one suggested I had a gift that needed a special kind of care to bring it forth as a strength in my life. I was scared, alone, vulnerable, and desperately needed someone to explain what was happening.

I needed a safe space to navigate the process that had just begun. I needed peers who shared similar lived experiences, a place to escape the toxic environment of my home life as I adjusted to this new way of seeing myself and the world. I needed a space that offered alternative perspectives to the biomedical model—not to dismiss it entirely, but to focus on the possibility of transformation through experience, without relying on medication.

All I was told was that I had a dangerous disease and needed medication to live a "normal" life. Normal life? No thanks, if that means conforming to the standards defined by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Soteria House is one such place to explore other ways of approaching these changes. In Greek mythology, Soteria was the goddess of safety, preservation, and deliverance from harm. Soteria House is a drug-free, home-like alternative to acute psychiatric hospitalization. It’s a treatment approach focused on creating calm, listening to voices and visions as possible guides, and promoting self-care. It's a communal setting where you meet others with similar lived experiences.

When methods like this, along with the Open Dialogue approach, are used initially, research shows that the need for medication is significantly reduced. Many people move through their experiences transformed and healed. Or they figure out how to live with their voices and visions as allies and guides. Just knowing that the recovery model exists makes recovery more likely—contrasting sharply with the biomedical model, which often leaves no room for recovery. But the speed at which the biomedical model jumps to extreme measures severely limits the possibility of this kind of transformation.

It just makes sense and you wonder why there is only one such house in the USA. The pharmaceutical industry and its close ties with psychiatry create significant barriers. Profit margins rarely align with improving mental well-being, and Big Pharma, with all its wealth, has a strong influence over which studies get funded. There's little incentive to explore non-medical approaches with profits being most important. Capitalism, in the end, is detrimental to our mental health, and the situation is only going to get worse within the current climate. This makes it even more critical to focus on alternative solutions, both as individuals and communities, and to shift the cultural narrative about how we approach those in our lives experiencing mental health struggles. Soteria House and its model are proven examples of this kind of positive change.

The creative and visionary potential within these experiences is well documented. I like to imagine a generation of people being treated through these alternative methods and the profound contributions they could make to the change our world desperately needs. A collective spiritual awakening through those once labeled as outcasts and a threat to the normal being defined by the powers that be. It sounds like revolution to me!

If you're interested in learning more, check out this upcoming webinar from Mad in America entitled The Case For Soteria: Past, Present, and Future.

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-case-for-soteria-past-present-and-future-tickets-1116835006569?aff=MIAwebsite

As our child-led circle began last week the kids informed me with delight that I’m balancing on top of the rock stack in the middle. Part 1 is incomplete unless the focus turns to me in the center. I’m turning 60 this coming year, and the call to be an elder is not just for our older kids. I’ve been feeling myself balancing there since our gathering, reflecting on what becoming an elder means for me. A precarious place to be, with much uncertainty. It’s taken most of my adult life to figure out how to be this particular man and now there is clearly the call to show up as an elder. My first reaction is to turn away. A wounded man such as myself is not fit to be an elder. This is ridiculous! But there’s that call. I know now when it’s loud and clear if I don’t answer, the call may awaken me. I’m not in the mood for a grand event to open me up to this new stage of my life with the real life upheaval and sleep disruption that would follow. I better take this seriously!

I begin to reflect on why I feel doubt and I find in the center, with my emerging elder, the lack of healthy role models in my past. A lonely place. Growing up, my models showed me that a male elder accumulates wealth and status. He has a sense of arrogance and superiority. Emotional intelligence is just for the women. He seems to be the master of one thing and uses it to separate himself. No wonder I busted open at 16 years old. I was already denying some essential strengths that didn’t fit this mold. They just had to breathe with the touch and acknowledgment of a true elder that never came. It seems to be part of our collective story, as well. My individual experiences a reflection of our shared patriarchal wounding.

One thing my first experience did for me was to propel me out of the reality I was being raised in. White, heteronormative, educated, affluent was my inherited view of the world up until this point. It just wasn't going to work, and I’m grateful for the expanded vision I was gifted within my difficult first experience. It’s almost as if the momentum from the beginning has been propelling me all along to land within this moment. A multi-generational cycle at the breaking point and my broken, wise heart rests in the center trying to find balance. If I’m going to do something meaningful to contribute to this moment of needed societal transformation, It’s time to stand up and take this seriously. So, I’m going to try. I’m going to get it wrong and lose my balance at times. I’ll eventually own it when I do. Another sign of my emerging elder?

I keep crying while I write this piece. A sign that this may be the way. There is something within the tenderness and the wounding that’s trying to lead. Perhaps, this is an essential part of being an elder. Honestly fumbling with my flaws, doubts, the old shame, the rich emotional landscape, and having the courage to just be. That’s the modeling I desperately needed back at 16. This is the piece to being my version of an elder that keeps coming up and I cry. Within the tears a clear call to serve and figure out how to do this with humility and grace. Decentering myself and learning to follow, especially, as a white man with some inherited privilege. Checking myself when the old modeled patterns show up as I stumble upon my own moments of arrogance and superiority. I still have a lot to learn. This realization, as well, feels like a part of being a true elder.

I’m fortunate to currently have a small circle of male elders in my life who are fumbling along with me in trying to answer this call. The needed witness and sense of the missing sacred touch can be found within these relationships. Plotting a course without the needed guides, being led by something greater than ourselves, we move beyond the usual male banter and allow ourselves to truly be seen. Our shared experience with the loss of father and a yearning for a new way brings us closer. The collective reinforces the path ahead with true brotherly love at the center.

But if I’m to complete the journey to the center, my role as a father is at the balance point connecting the past, present, and future. Twenty-eight years ago, an explosion of love, light, and new possibilities entered my life. It was a revelatory moment of pure joy and inspiration, but also one of fear and uncertainty. I knew deep down that I was carrying the weight of unresolved issues and unrealized potential. At that point, my story was that the highs were a chance to reconnect with me and find relief from persistent, learned anxiety.

I carried all of this and helped create a beautiful life for my daughter, but something had to give. As I got older, it became more difficult to navigate the cycles and hold onto the story. Insomnia set in, and things began to unravel as mother and daughter, at 14 years old, left me in a moment that I now see as necessary for my own healing journey. But it’s also clear now that this was necessary for her. A generational cycle will continue—or potentially break—depending on how I hold this pain. It would of been easy to turn away during the years of harsh rejection but something more important led me on. My dad turned away at this point and a repeating cycle was before me, so I chose to get to work. Sometimes, a dark night of the soul is the needed medicine that later becomes the gift of a lifetime.

Alone with my pain and misery, I found an opportunity to transform. I picked myself up, took it one step at a time, and here I am, acknowledging a call to be an elder and a father. Part of why I write is to leave her some clues for her journey if and when she feels the need. The love of a father for his daughter becomes the true motivation at the center of it all.

We’re both trying now and am grateful to be building something new with the adult she has become. I just confirmed my flights to visit her new home in the sun and warmth. I recognize something in her adventurous spirit! I can feel the ancestors rooting me on right now with more tears of connection.

After the tears, possibility and renewal now rest in the center, as well. I don’t need to intellectually wrap myself around being an elder. Just keep these feeling centers open, and the way will show itself is my current sense of this new call. I’m not really leading but being led somewhere and it’s humbling to the core. That sacred touch I so desperately needed back at 16 - I’m giving that to this wounded part of myself, as an elder is seemingly emerging from this place.

So I return to our child-led circle. Nature is seemingly taking its course for us all, as the kids feel the spark of my sacred touch I seem to possess already. Our circle feels both ancient and alive as we all acknowledge and answer the call to serve that’s there for us all!

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher

He/Him