Dear fellow parent,

Thank you for being here. Maybe you’re reading this at the kitchen table after everyone’s finally asleep after eating more than their fill of Halloween treats, or maybe you’ve stolen a few minutes sitting in front of the TV as the kids watch Halloween movies. However you’ve arrived, I’m glad you’re here.

This month’s theme is Resting as You Are.
As we move through Samhain into winter, the increasing hours of darkness, and we reflect after months of movement, can we quietly ask: Will we stop for a moment?
Not to achieve rest, but to notice where rest is beginning to show itself all around us in nature.

Our bodies are far wiser than our calendars. Mine starts to speak in yawns, in shoulders that rise toward my ears, in a mind that wanders mid-sentence. For years I thought those were failures — signs that I wasn’t disciplined enough. But lately I’ve begun to understand: they’re invitations. My body isn’t betraying me; it’s trying to bring me into acceptance that it is time to rest.

Leaning in means listening to these invitations before they become demands.
It means noticing the quiet ache behind your eyes, the way your child instinctively seeks a slower rhythm, the deep exhale that comes when you finally stop pretending you’re fine.

Rest doesn’t always look like lying down. Sometimes it looks like turning off the inner commentator.
Rest might be simply not performing for a while.

The trees know this secret. When they drop their leaves, they don’t disappear; they redirect their energy inward, feeding what can’t yet be seen.
What would it mean if you did the same?
What if rest wasn’t a reward for productivity but the root of everything else?

This week, try this:

Body:
Notice how your body calls for rest. Is it in the weight behind your eyes?
The ache in your shoulders?
The way your breath shortens at the end of the day?
Place a hand where tiredness lives and whisper, “I hear you.”
No need to fix it — just witness it.

Story:
Name the story you tell yourself about rest. Is it “I’ll rest when everything’s done” or “Others need me first”?
Then name another story that might also be true: “Rest is part of care.”
“My children learn calm from my calm.”
Hold both stories gently and see if one softens the other.

Breath:
Take two breaths: one for the doing - self that’s learning to pause,
and one for the being - self that’s already resting beneath the surface.

A Glimpse Ahead

Next time, we’ll move toward the “E” in our L-E-A-D framework: Engage — exploring small, doable ways to honour the rest your body is asking for.

Before you close this email, take a breath for yourself, and a breath for your child.
Not the child in the reports.
The child who called you into becoming.

May we lean in to the wisdom of tired bodies.
May we honour rest not as laziness, but as remembering.
And may the ladybird snore softly on the windowsill, reminding us that even tiny beings know when to stop.