Dear fellow parent,

We’ve listened; we’ve taken small steps.
Now we arrive at Adapt — the quiet turning point where we stop trying to earn rest and begin to live it.

In my years of being with families and parenting my own children, I’ve noticed how quickly “self-care” becomes another chore.
The part of me that loves lists and structure and being productive keeps whispering: Am I doing rest properly?
Through my learning and experience with the Internal Family Systems® (IFS) model, developed by Richard C. Schwartz, Ph.D., I’ve learned to greet that part with curiosity instead of judgment.

I’ll often pause and say inwardly, “Thank you for caring so much about keeping everything going. What would you need from me to take a break and rest for a while?”
Almost instantly my breath deepens, my shoulders drop.
The ‘doing part’ softens, and a deeper ‘being Self’ steps forward — steady, open, kind.

This is what IFS calls Self energy: the calm core that exists beneath our parts’ busyness.
Adaptation in this sense is an inner conversation — a re-negotiation of pace between the parts that push and the parts that plead for pause.

When I meet with parents and groups, we talk about adaptation being a process, not a fix.
We test, adjust, and find what fits the current environment.
IFS adds that the environment includes our inner world.
Sometimes the system that most needs re-arranging is our nervous system.

So this week, practice one small act of inner adaptation:
When you feel the urge to keep going, stop for two breaths and ask, “Is doing necessary, or is being enough right now?”
You might be surprised by the answer.

If being feels uncomfortable at first, that’s okay.
All adaptations feel awkward until they become embodied.
The land itself models this beautifully — the Burren adapting season after season, stone meeting rain, nothing forced.

A Glimpse Ahead

Next time, we’ll move toward the “D” in our L-E-A-D framework: Discover — listening for what rest is revealing beneath the quiet.

Before you close this email, take a breath for yourself, and a breath for your child.
Not the child in the plans or goals — the child who teaches you how to pause.

May we adapt with tenderness, letting presence do some of the work.
May we find company in stillness.
And may the ladybird pause on the windowsill beside us, reminding us that being is also a form of becoming.