There’s a kind of conversation that doesn’t have an agenda.

No curriculum. No pre-packaged takeaways. Just two people willing to go beneath the waterline and see what’s actually there.

That’s what this Thursday’s exploration promises.

Going Deep is a live video conversation with Melissa George of Grounding Leadership — a developmental coach and leadership consultant who has spent serious time thinking about what it means to grow vertically, not just accumulate new skills. We met nearly a year ago at a gathering of people working at the intersection of adult development and leadership. We’ve been meaning to connect beyond the occasional What’s App voice memos and messages ever since.

We’re bringing into this conversation what is actually present in our lives and work right now. Not the highlight reel. Not the polished insight. The live, slightly unruly thing.

I know something of what I’m carrying in though I’m always a bit surprised by what comes out in my conversations. What Melissa is bringing to Thursday? That’s the mystery. And honestly, part of why I can’t wait.

Going Deep with Valerie Livesay & Melissa George

Thursday, May 14 · 1:00pm PT Live on Substack · Free and open to all

Join us live on the Substack App

Not because something new has happened. But because something that was always there has finally come into focus.

I ended there. With the seeing. But seeing raises a question I haven’t been able to put down:

bell hooks asked this question with a fierce tenderness I keep returning to. For hooks, growing in awareness — of ourselves, of the people we love, of the world we participate in — was never simply an intellectual achievement.

It was a threshold. And crossing it meant you were responsible for what came next.

She was honest that this kind of seeing doesn’t feel like clarity at first. It arrives as grief. As anger. As the slow dissolution of a story you thought you understood — about your relationships, your choices, your silence, the systems you’ve been living inside without fully seeing them.

And she was equally honest about what it takes to move through it:

“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation.

Healing is an act of communion.”

I keep sitting with that word. Communion. Not “agreement”. Not the comfort of a room full of people who already see what you see.

Communion as in: I bring what I am carrying, and so do you, and something becomes possible between us that was not possible alone.

I've been sitting with that alongside something else I've been working with — an idea I'm calling the developmental braid. The two keep finding each other in my thinking, and I'm not sure I've fully worked out why. But here's what I know so far.

The braid has three strands: meaning-making, identity, and systems awareness — three distinct territories, each requiring its own cultivation. We tend to be more developed in some strands than others. But there’s something that becomes possible when all three are consciously held together — a quality of development, of leadership, of seeing, that none of the strands can produce alone.

What the developmental braid has taught me, especially lately, is where the ground gives way. Systems awareness can begin as cognitive — recognizing patterns, naming structures. But when it becomes personal, when you see not just the system but your place inside it, your collusion in it — that’s when it stops being a thought and becomes something else entirely.

A gut punch.

What Mezirow called a disorienting dilemma. The strands collapse into each other, and suddenly meaning-making and identity are implicated, too.

Because seeing clearly doesn’t just change what you know. It changes who you are. It changes the story you’ve been telling about your past, your choices, your silence.

It can arrive in the middle of an argument with your teenager, or a moment of stillness when you realize you’ve been performing something rather than living it. It can arrive in a moment in world that makes neutrality impossible, or a professional one where you realize that staying quiet has been its own choice all along.

That kind of integration doesn’t solely happen in your head. And it doesn’t happen alone.

Under threat or pressure — in any of those domains — the braid tightens. Meaning-making narrows. Identity defends. We lose the thread of who we’re trying to become. We fall back.

Which is why I keep returning to hooks. Her answer to the tightening was never to try harder in isolation. It was communion. Staying in relationship through the disorientation rather than retreating from it.

Creativity becomes developmental when we stay in relationship through tension. The same is true of leadership. Of conscience. Of the particular kind of growing this moment is asking of us.

This is what I’m creating in Braided Conversations.

A small, intentional space — four to eight people — for those navigating exactly this. Whether the seeing arrived through your relationships, your parenting, your work, the state of the world, or your own interior: the grief braided with clarity, the responsibility braided with uncertainty, the need to stay present to something you’d rather look away from.

Not a course. Not content delivery. A practice space, where we bring real questions rather than polished conclusions — and where the work is not to arrive anywhere in particular, but to stay awake to the shaping that is happening in real time.

If this sounds like the kind of space you've been looking for — conscious strand-holding, in communion — I'd love to have you.

Registration closes March 26. The group is intentionally small, and space may fill before then.

Development and dignity were never separate projects.

And neither, I think, are development and communion.

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Read the first piece in this thread: The Things You Can’t Unsee

When Alis and I first created this space, it centered on how raising children raises us. That remains true. But what we’ve come to realize over the past year is that the deeper thread has always been about something more encompassing of all of life — how we grow as humans across roles, relationships, and thresholds.

Parenting was one doorway. Development has always been the room.

This piece lives inside that larger frame.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a question that feels both developmental and deeply personal:

What happens when you see something… and cannot unsee it?

Not because something new has occurred. But because something that was always there has finally come into focus.

Over the past months, I’ve felt something shifting inside me.

Grief. Anger. Clarity. Tenderness. All braided together.

I’ve been grieving not only what is unfolding in the world, but what I failed to recognize before. The harm that existed while I was insulated by busyness, by complexity, by my own partial sight — and yes, by privilege.

Much has changed. And some of what feels newly urgent was always there — embedded in the structures around me, softened by the comfort I rarely had to question.

But, I can see it now. And once you see, you cannot return to innocence.

For years, much of my work has lived in what I think of as the developmental voice. Holding paradox. Inviting complexity. Asking, What might I be missing? Creating space for rough drafts — of ideas, of identity, of relationship.

That voice is still mine.

But recently, another voice has been rising — one that feels less patient and more precise.

I’ve wondered if this is fallback. If I’m becoming rigid. If I’m slipping into righteousness—a character I’ve known well.

But what I’m beginning to understand is that this isn’t a fracture. It’s a braid.

I still believe two things can be true at once.

But they are not always equal in what is at stake.

And when cruelty escalates, taking a stand is not a failure of development — it is its expression.

Patience without agency becomes avoidance. Agency without patience can erode the very humanity we’re trying to defend.

What I’m learning—painfully—is that the practice is not standing without consequence, rupture, or grief. Those are inevitable.

The work is to stand without contempt. To refuse cruelty without becoming cruel. To keep my conscience intact without flattening the world into simple enemies and allies.

I’ve also been grieving something else.

The people who may not understand this shift. The relationships that may strain under clearer boundaries. The losses that come when you choose not to stay quiet.

I feel this most acutely at home. As a parent. As a partner.

Seeing changes how I show up. It changes the conversations at the dinner table. It changes what I model about courage and consequence. It changes how I talk about power…and how I use my own.

Because once you see harm, neutrality is no longer neutral.

The question becomes:

What kind of adult do I want my children to watch me become? One who preserves comfort? Or one who preserves conscience?

What kind of partner do I want to be in this moment? One who retreats into abstraction? Or one who stands, even when standing costs something?

I cannot lose myself to preserve belonging. But I also cannot abandon others — especially those who are watching, learning, calibrating their own sense of agency by how I inhabit mine.

This is the braid. Not abandoning self. Not abandoning others. Not abandoning the possibility that we can grow into something braver together.

Recently, my friend, Craig, wrote on his Book of Forgotten Words substack about the word respair — to reclaim hope as an act of will.

That word feels right in this moment. Because this kind of seeing hurts. It burns off illusion. It strains relationships. It destabilizes identity.

But it also clarifies. And clarity, when paired with conscience, is not cynicism. It is the beginning of respair. Not shallow optimism. But a disciplined refusal to give up on one another…a refusal to give up on one’s self.

If you’ve been feeling something similar — grief braided with anger, clarity braided with fear, agency braided with loss — you are not unraveling.

You may be integrating. And integration rarely feels gentle.

It feels like tension. It feels like choosing. It feels like standing where you once would have shrunk. It feels like becoming someone who cannot unsee, and refuses to abandon either self or hope in the process.

I don’t know exactly what this season will require. But I know this: I would rather lose comfort than lose coherence. Because development and dignity were never separate projects. They were always the same work.

And perhaps this is what growing as humans looks like in a moment like this — the courage to see clearly and live in alignment with what we now know.

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Every year, as the clocks fall back, I feel the familiar tug of time — the reminder that even endings are invitations to begin again.

When I first wrote Leaving the Ghost Light Burning: Illuminating Fallback in Embrace of the Fullness of You, I thought I was exploring how we tighten, falter, and forget the fullness of who we are.

But what I’ve learned since is that fallback isn’t just about collapse and recovery — it’s about slow learning.

It’s the practice of returning, over and over, to what life keeps teaching us.

Many of those lessons came as quiet gifts — from mentors, companions, and the living work of paying attention. They taught me that learning is not a straight line but a spiral: we revisit what matters until it roots more deeply within us.

The work of Growing Humans lives here, too: in the slow tending, the returning, the willingness to keep learning what love and loss keep teaching.

This season, on the third anniversary of what I lovingly call Fallbook, I feel that rhythm again. Not as a haunting, but as a hum — the presence of what endures beneath change. The reminder that falling back isn’t failure; it’s how we remember where we stand.

So this Fallback Day, I’ll keep the ghost light burning — for all who are still in rehearsal, and for all of us learning how to fall back with grace.

Holding the light as the days dim,

Val

An Invitation to Listen into the Dark on Fallback Day

If you’re walking through your own season of returning, you might find a companion in Leaving the Ghost Light Burning: Illuminating Fallback in Embrace of the Fullness of You — a book born of these very questions. Or share it with someone who might need to be reminded that every falling back is also an opening toward light.

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Since that gathering, both of us have been sitting in our own layers of letting go — some chosen, some not. The shifting of projects, pace, expectations; the quiet absences that open space for something unnamed. It’s a season that keeps teaching us how loss and life live side by side.

Last week, we met to see what the stillness and space in between had revealed.

“I’m learning that letting go doesn’t always mean release,” Val said. “Sometimes it just means holding differently — not with fists or open palms, but with cupped hands.”

Alis mused,

“It’s seasonal, right? The loss isn’t an end; it’s the compost. Everything that’s breaking down is also feeding the roots.”

Letting go doesn’t mean we stop caring. It means we trust that care can take a different shape — softer, slower, quieter. The roots still hold. The hands are still open.

We keep discovering that Growing Humans is really about this: learning to stay present in the tension between what’s leaving and what’s being born.

And the work isn’t just out there — in projects, communities, or the children we’re raising. It’s in here. What is leaving and what is being born is happening within us, too, as we grow ourselves.

“I once thought I was only the gardener,” Val said. “But I’m also the soil — what’s being turned, broken open, and made ready for what comes next.”

There was a long pause, the kind that softens the air between words. Our eyes found the divination card Alis had pulled at the beginning of our call.

“We’re each other’s reminders,” Alis said.

“When I forget who I am,” Val replied, “you say it back to me.”

That is the shape of letting go — not disappearance, but return.

The way we hold one another like this — with curiosity, truth-telling, and grace — is something we learned from those who showed us how to be.

As we return to this conversation now, we do so in a season touched by loss. One of our beloved friends and mentors, Bill Torbert, whose work and way shaped much of what lives beneath Growing Humans, has just passed. This reflection feels, in its own small way, like a living tribute — to what he taught about inquiry, courage, and becoming together.

So we keep tending: noticing, naming, remembering.

Loss becomes soil.

Friendship becomes practice.

And the practice, always, is becoming human — again and again.

An Invitation

What are you releasing this season?

What still wants your tending?

You might begin simply:

What I’m letting go of is…

What still holds me is…

We’ll be sitting with these, too — listening for what grows in the quiet after.

With care,

Val + Alis

If you missed “Growing Through Loss,” you can revisit the conversation and the questions that continue to guide us.

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It was the sound of stones shifting — grief loosening its grip just enough for something small, green, and alive to root in the cracks.

We spoke of the ways loss reshapes us:

the friendships that drift and return changed,

the work we once tended that now asks for rest,

the children who grow past our reach — and us, still growing too,

the identities now beyond our grasp,

the dreams championed for others but not yet claimed for ourselves.

What we discovered was not how to fix loss, but how to live beside it.

How to let what’s fallen teach us about what still stands.

If you missed the session, we walked through a simple, human(e) rhythm — four questions that helped us listen differently to what was gone, and to what might yet become:

1️⃣ What is true about this loss?

2️⃣ What did it bring or teach you when it was alive?

3️⃣ What in you still feels alive—still wants your care, even after this loss?

4️⃣ How does the you reshaped by this loss wish to meet what remains?

But what felt important, in our discernment about Growing Humans last month, in this webinar this week, was that we begin by honoring ourselves and honoring the loss by naming what is true. We invite you to start there, too.

🌱 What truth is ready to be spoken—perhaps first to yourself, perhaps here among others—about what’s been lost?

You might find it easiest to let it flow from these phrases:
What I’ve lost is… or What’s changing is… or What I’m feeling is…

We would love for you to name your truth in the comments below, or simply let it find its voice in its own time. 🌱

We suspect questions will keep working on us, quietly, like time on stone.

Because even ruins reach for the light in their own way.

With care,

Val + Alis

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Dear companions,

As many of you know, the past couple of weeks we’ve been sitting with our own wandering, our grief, and our longing around Growing Humans. Out of that discernment, one thing became clear: it feels right to gather with you—live, in real time. Not polished. Not perfect. Just human-sized.

So, we’re offering our first live webinar in October. The theme: Loss as part of the process of growing humans—others and ourselves.

Why loss? Because in tending children, communities, and our own unfolding, we inevitably encounter grief: dreams that don’t unfold, relationships that shift, parts of ourselves we must release. Rather than avoid this, we want to honor loss as part of the curriculum of being human…as a necessary aspect of growth.

What to expect

• A short framing story from us (Val + Alis)

• A moment for quiet individual reflection

• Paired or trio conversations in breakout rooms

• A harvest of collective themes back in plenary

• A simple closing gesture

This is not a lecture. It’s a practice of listening together—using our own discernment journey with Growing Humans as an entry point for yours.

Date + Time: October 8, 4-5pm PT

Duration: 60 minutes (not 90—we’re keeping it livable)

Cost: Free

Where: Online (Zoom)

We’d love to have you join us. Please register here: https://courses.verticaldevelopmentinstitute.com/course/webinar-loss-as-part-of-growing-humans

And if you can’t make it live, the free webinar will be recorded and the recording made available the following day to all those enrolled.

We’re treating this as an experiment, not a forever. A small step to see what wants to grow when we gather live.

This is not an answer—it’s a seeding. 🌱

With care,

Val + Alis

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But this week we’ve been inquiring into those assumptions. What if the most human thing we can do is to offer smaller, truer increments? What if the livable, imperfect gestures are the ones that create the most spaciousness for growth?

[My real garden this morning—messy, uneven, alive. Some things thriving, some things fading, all of it growing in its own rhythm. A reminder that tending doesn’t mean perfection; it means staying with what is.]

Those questions became very concrete as we began planning our first, live Growing Humans webinar, happening in October. At first, we imagined 90 minutes (because that’s how long webinars are in the spaces we move in). But when we looked closer, that choice didn’t align with our real lives. One of us would have had to reshuffle kids’ schedules, add stress, narrow margins. And both of us felt that 90 minutes can be a stretch for anyone trying to fit one more thing into a crowded week.

So we decided: 60 minutes.

On the surface, this might seem like a technical adjustment. But underneath, it’s about how we want to grow together. We don’t want to model endurance, or make our offerings one more burden, for you or for us. We want to model livable increments. Because sometimes, honoring the constraint of chronos—the clock, the schedule—is the very thing that lets kairos—the timeless, the sacred—breathe.

We wonder with you:

• Where are you pressing yourself into heroic sprints that no longer serve?

• What happens if you size things for ease, and let life expand within that frame?

This is not an answer—it’s a seedling. 🌱

With care,

Val + Alis

P.S. We’ll share the date and registration details for the October webinar soon. For now, we’re glad to say: it will be one hour, human-sized.

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The question isn’t, “How do we commit to a big new offering?” but rather, “What would it be like to take a few small steps and see if life gathers around them?” We are sensing into micro-experiments: short, time-bound circles or gatherings that let us feel whether live accompaniment nourishes us and you, or whether the soil simply wants more rest.

This is less about building and more about listening. Less about proving and more about noticing.

There is grief in the background—grief for what we once imagined, and uncertainty about what will become. But today, experiment felt like the truest way to honor both what has been and what might still sprout.

We’d love for you to walk alongside us in this discernment—not as decision-makers, but as witnesses. If you feel moved, share a single word of aliveness in the comments: something you notice stirring in you as you read what has been moving through us.

And also, we wonder with you in your own contexts:

When you’re at a crossroads, what helps you discern whether to pause or to take a small step forward?

How do you know when it’s time to test the waters, even without guarantees?

This is not an answer—it’s a seedling. 🌱

With care,

Val + Alis

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Yesterday we named the wandering we’ve been in with Growing Humans—the ways our passion waned, our capacity shrank, and how that too is part of growing.

Today’s truth feels murkier.

From Val:

I don’t actually know what I want from Growing Humans right now. Part of me longs to tend it more closely, imagining what it could become. Another part fears that stepping in more deeply would become another something that I don’t have the capacity to give myself to fully. Both possibilities live in me at once, and I don’t yet know which will grow stronger.

It’s unsettling to admit this, but maybe that’s the work. Growing humans means growing through uncertainty, not around it. It means noticing when desire and doubt live side by side, and not rushing to choose one over the other.

What I do know is that if I take on more of the tending, I don’t want to hide the mess. I want to invite you into it—the uncertainty, the ambivalence, the awkward middle. Because this is what it is to be human: to not always know, to feel pulled in two directions, to carry both hunger and hesitation.

From Alis:

For me, the mess shows up differently. I feel pulled by other projects and other loves, and yet I don’t want to abandon Growing Humans, either. My relationship to it feels less about “doing” right now and more about “listening”—as if Growing Humans is resting, and I need to rest with it.

Together, we’re realizing that Growing Humans isn’t asking us for neat answers. It’s asking us to sit in the not-knowing, to be transparent about our ambivalence, and to invite you into the awkward middle with us.

So today’s seeding is this:

We don’t yet know what we want or what’s next. But we’re willing to stay in the discomfort of that uncertainty together.

And we wonder for you:

• How do you sit with not knowing what you want?

• Where in your own life are you pulled between desire and hesitation?

If this lands with you, would you consider leaving one-word or a comment as a witness and companion? We’ll read them together tomorrow. We may share a few anonymously in the next post.

Thank you for walking with us in the messy middle.

With care in the not knowing,

Val + Alis

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When we began Growing Humans last year, our hearts were full and our plans abundant. We dreamed of podcasts, articles, and a course that could accompany you (and us) in the messy, beautiful work of growing humans.

And then—life. Illness, grief, burnout, politics, other projects. Our passion waned. Our capacity shrank. We wandered.

We didn’t follow through in the ways we imagined. We’ve carried guilt about that—especially toward those who entrusted us with your attention and support.

But here’s the deeper truth: Growing Humans was never meant to be about polished answers. It was always about the journey—the detours as much as the trail. About wandering, fallback, and re-choosing the path. About the ways we grow ourselves while tending to the growth of others.

So here we are, naming it:

We wandered. We waned. And this, too, is part of growing.

This week, we are devoting ourselves to listening. We are meeting every day, asking together: What does Growing Humans want to be now? What do we want to give it, and what do we need from it? We don’t know yet where this will go. But we trust that naming the wandering is itself a form of growth.

If you, too, have wandered this year, we’d love to hear what that wandering has taught you. What have you seen or carried back from the detour?

We’ll be sharing daily reflections—breadcrumbs from our own discernment. Not conclusions, but glimpses of the trail, as we walk it.

Thank you for being with us in the uncertainty. Your presence is part of what makes this field alive.

With care,

Val + Alis

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I know what mine looks like now. I circle the wagons. Hunker down. Pull me and mine close. And wait. In silence. This is me in response to collective fallback. The kind where—for reals—the sky is falling in. Global pandemics. Lawless dictators and their oligarch lackeys. (Or maybe it’s oligarchs and their lawless dictator lackeys…it’s hard to tell which from day to day.)

And there I find myself, in the basement of my being. All of my capacities trapped behind the locked doors of my shrinking developmental house, which has come these past several months to feel more like a bunker.

I am scared. So many of us are.

Actually, it’s not just fear. It’s terror. And as I write this, I realize that this is, indeed, who has been on the scenes of my being. Terror.

She’s a character I identified and named maybe seven years ago…though she was born when I was young. She grips me forcefully, causing every fiber of my being to tense. My hands form reflexively into fists, my nails cutting into my palms. My jaw clenches. My senses are on high alert. I want to scream but what seeps out is a nearly imperceptible whimper.

Terror is solid, immovable, determined, enraged…and silent. As her body steels itself against danger, her eyes scan for threats and search for the exits, the hidden tunnels that will deliver those she loves—those she is determined to protect—to safety.

If it were just me, I would not hesitate. I would not look for the escape routes. I would make my voice heard. I would resist, loudly. I would use every modality available to me to fight. But it is not just me. I am responsible to other humans. So many of us are—be they in our families, in our classrooms, in our workplaces, in our communities.

What I do has repercussions for others, now more than ever before, as government infiltrates my data, my personal life, my institutions, my sidewalks, my privacy, my freedoms, my tax dollars, my financial future, my safety. All the while taking a chainsaw to so much that I hold sacred and dear.

Terror commandeers the stage in protection of others.

A clear, rational thought prevails: I’ll protect us by not drawing attention to us.

And in so doing, I have been unrecognizable to myself, at least the self that I want to be. But the truth is, Terror is a part of me. She is here. And she’s here for a reason. She is protecting so much that I value. My children, my husband, this life that we have built in a country that promised us we could.

So, I have stayed outwardly silent while inwardly, I wail.

But what Terror can’t see on her own, when she is the only actress on my internal stage, is that protection by way of silence is a false truth.

Yes, we could go unnoticed, disguised, wearing the face we keep in a jar by the door. (I’m coming to see now who it is for.) But I decided many years ago that I would not mask myself. And I refuse to be cloaked in fear now.

When I am in fallback, I lose access to the parts of myself that are more spacious, more generative—those that can hold paradox, consider long-range implications, or seek the good of the whole. In the bomb shelter of my fallback, nuance dies. And with it, my leadership potential.

It’s a false promise that I can protect those I love by keeping my head down and my mouth shut. In the light of day, as I peek tentatively out of the bunker that has been holding me, I can see another truth. If I collude with my silence, I will protect no one.

I can see it in the rapidly falling away distance of time, and protocol, and civility, and law, and humanity—glimpses of a future scene. My children turn to me, when all vestiges of safety have been stripped, and ask, “Why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you stand up for what was right? Why didn’t you protect me, not with your silence but with your voice?”

As we struggle to make sense of ourselves and the way we are showing up (or not) in a world in existential crisis, there has been little that I’ve encountered about how it is affecting us humans in here…how we are showing up to ourselves, now also in existential crisis, and to the humans we grow. I have read and listened to what is happening out there. Yet, I’ve believed for some time that we, individual humans, are the primary units of analysis. The wisdom lies within us.

It is times like these when all the theories we study about leadership, and vertical development, and fallback are put to the test. What will we do with them when the rubber meets the road?

“Fear is a necessary precondition to courage,” proclaimed Senator Cory Booker in his 25-hour marathon speech on the floor of the Senate in protest of the devastation that Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and their sycophants are wreaking on the United States and the rest of the world.

Yes. Yes sir, it is.

How do we humans live into the place in our development where our fullness, both our bigness and our smallness in all of their wisdom, power, and gifts, can take the stage in protection of the values we hold? And how can we do this as we also tend to the growth of other humans?

Perhaps the first step is to face into the reality that this human journey is painful.

It’s a truth that so many of us have attempted to turn away from. We don’t get through life without fear and loss. The times we are living in right now put this truth on loudspeaker.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Do not squander the hour of your pain.” Indeed, our pain is so often the source of our transformation, and also the source of our ability to accompany others in theirs.

We must pay attention.

I have long believed that the lynchpin of coming into relationship with the fullness of you, including your fallback, is to notice. But noticing, these past few months, hasn’t felt like enough. We must pay attention.

Pay attention to what is happening in you. I’m not talking about a passing glance. I’m advocating for a full-on sit-in. If you find it too dark to see, be still and let your eyes adjust. If you hear nothing, listen into the silence. Feel the tension in your face, the constriction of your muscles. Pay attention to where your attention is drawn and where you don’t dare look. Bring curiosity to your fear. Listen for the truth that is revealed. Sit tight and wait for the other truths to emerge…there is always more than one.

Yet sometimes we are unable to see ourselves, to hear the truths until we utter them to or hear them from another.

Go to the spaces where you can be seen and held without fear of judgment.

We make meaning in community. We see ourselves through others’ eyes. We become better witnesses of ourselves through our witnessing of other humans.

Not being alone–in my own thoughts, anguish, in my Terror–has served as a balm when all around me feels like barbed wire. To be seen and heard in my pain and fear; to witness another in theirs; to be reminded that this is not humanity’s first rodeo with those who seek to destroy democracy; to have demonstrated to me that joy and hope have for centuries prevailed in the face of cruelty; to be reminded of the human spirit and to witness others’ Courage standing alongside their Terror—has given me strength, compassion, perspective, and a map.

Think about the long game…

…beyond you in this moment, in this year, in the next four, in the next 40. What will your children’s lives be like? And theirs? What legacy will you leave them? What kind of human do you wish to be in this world? What is your intention for meeting this moment?

Do not squander the hour of your pain. Notice who is on your stage. Face into your fallback, not with shame, but with curiosity. And then ask yourself: Who else needs to be here? What character will help you lead—not just others, but yourself—into the world you hope to shape?

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It’s a regularly spoken refrain in our house as my children obsess, seemingly endlessly, about what their sibling is doing.

“But she already used all of her tech tickets and she’s sneaking another one!”

“But I was telling a joke and he ruined the punchline.” 

“But he has his elbows on the table at dinner.”

“But he called me a jerk…interrupted me when I was telling a story…gave herself the larger scoop of ice cream…never stops talking, so I don’t have a chance to speak….”

Occasionally, I offer it as a reminder when my kids are complaining about how others outside of our household are behaving. 

“But the coach was yelling at us and telling us how awful we were.  He made us run laps because we were having fun.  Aren’t we supposed to be having fun?  Can’t he see that negative reinforcement isn’t motivating us?”

And how they feel justified in behaving in response… 

“So, I started coaching the team, using positive language to show him how it’s done.” 

“So, I just continued doing my own thing, but this time with emphasis so he could see how right I am and that he was doing it wrong.”

“So, I’m not going to go to practice next week, because he told us not to come if we weren’t willing to work hard. I already was working hard!”

Me: “I’m not saying that Coach is right.  What I am saying is that you aren’t in charge of him. You are only in charge of you.”

This worrying about and attempting to control others’ behavior is not solely the domain of children, though. Recently, I was accompanying a client as she rehearsed for an upcoming scene in which she thought there was high likelihood that she wouldn’t show up her biggest self.  A scene in which she was prone to fall back into a less conscious and mature way of seeing the situation and the others in it, a less conscious and mature way of behaving. 

I asked, “What is your intention for how you show up to this conversation?” 

She replied, “My intention is for my boss to listen to my opinion and to decide that mine is the best course of action.”

I gently pushed, “But what is your intention for you in this conversation?”

“Right,” she quickly replied, not sure why I hadn’t heard her the first time. “I want him to understand my perspective and to go with what I am proposing.”

“I understand that this is your goal for the outcome of the meeting.  But you are only in charge of you, not him,” I offered. “So, how do you want to show up for you? What is your intention for your relationship with your boss? What is your intention for who you wish to be in this particular scene, in the broader organization?”

“Oh…,” she said slowly.  After a few seconds, she softly said, “I see. What is my intention for me?”

We are not accustomed to thinking this way.  Our orientation is so often about others and what they are or aren’t doing; how they are wrong; what they can’t see that, if only they could, all would be right in the world.  But the truth is, whether we are 10 or 50, we are only in charge of ourselves.  We can’t make anyone else see, think, believe, behave the way we want. 

This is a truth that I, too, am frequently confronted with particularly in the context of raising my 10- and 14-year-old children. (In truth, in the context of my relationship with my spouse, too.) Sometimes as parents, we can and do coerce, exert power over, demean, shame, guilt, and punish our children into doing what we want.  But while the children we are raising may acquiesce, at least in action though frequently not in spirit, we often end up diminishing who we are and who we wish to be—in relationship to them, and as humans in the world—in the process.  The external gain we garner from attempting to be in charge of others comes at an internal price as we disregard our values in service to getting our way, or being right, or having and showing that we have the upper hand.

“You are only in charge of you,” is a refrain I repeat often to myself.

Through my research, practice accompanying others, and in my own life, I’ve found that intentions can be an incredibly helpful scaffold.  Connecting to my intentions and having them as a touchstone to return to when I lose my way and go into what I refer to as “default mode” helps me more frequently bring my most mature self, my most important values, and my highest purpose to my interactions in the world and importantly, with the children I grow.  And when I get swept up in the moment, take the bait, and fall back, reacting with a capacity (or lack thereof) that is more aligned with my adolescent children’s developmental stages than it should be with my own as a (supposed) grown-up, connecting to my intentions offers me a toe-hold to pull myself out of the pit.

Wisdom for humans young and old who are always and forevermore in the practice of growing.

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You will also receive a 50% discount on our self-led program for parents and educators: Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us.

Tomorrow, and I will join Robert Franken (fellow grower of humans) and our friends in the Conscious Tribes Community for an interview and Q&A session! This will be our first time talking live, publicly, about our Growing Humans baby and we would love for you to be there!

Tuesday, Nov. 12, 2024 — 6 - 7:30am PST; 9-10:30am EST; 3 - 4:30 pm CET

Alis and I will be sharing more about the Growing Humans project and our purpose in fostering vertical development for parents and educators. We’ll talk about why parenting techniques are only part of the story and why our own development matters so much in the way we—parents or teachers—show up for our kids, at home or in the classroom. This is an open conversation, with live questions from the audience.

Community is such a big part of how we grow throughout our lives. Community is what we are building through Growing Humans. And we are honored to be recognized as a Conscious Tribe and invited into community by our friends at Conscious U.

We hope you, the folks who have been cheering us on in the Growing Humans community, will join us. And please feel free to invite others! Let us know if you can make it here.

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Every time, I have been humbled by their vulnerability as they seek to understand how to engage with their child in the best way possible—how to support them while balancing their own feelings about how they show up as parents.

This can be a tumultuous and emotional time for parents, as they face a whole cast of inner characters (parts or voices) in their minds—patterns rooted in their own history and life experiences—that come up and evoke feelings of anger, guilt, sadness, or self-judgment.

Depending on the inner character that shows up, parents find themselves turning from loving parents into unhelpful archetypes such as ‘Prosecutors’, ‘Preachers’, ‘Victims’ or ‘Rescuers’ when engaging with their children.

Almost without exception, the most important thing I have had to offer them during challenging periods with their children is to help them be more present in the situation by identifying which voice has taken over, noticing the stories they are telling themselves in their minds and the impact on their behaviour and interactions their child.

Learning to be more aware of their own internal process and being able to engage with problems from an Explorer mindset—gathering and making sense of the “data” and challenging mental scenarios—allows them to be more present, available, and supportive of themselves and their children. And that can make all the difference in the world.

A child’s journey through school and school experiences - what they learn from each other or the system they are in - can complicate or intensify tensions with their parents. Relationships with peers, school culture and today’s schools’ relationship with the larger culture it is embedded in - can all impact a young person's sense of well-being at a time when they are most susceptible to being influenced. We are living through challenging, turbulent and sometimes frightening and anxiety-producing times, filled with competing and confusing narratives. For our children, regardless of age, the times that they are now living through are bound to shape their future and who they become as adults.

Parents have such a big impact on their children's future and can influence both their own growth and their children’s by providing them with a safe and loving space to explore who they uniquely are – a safe harbour away from the chaos of the world. Parents influence their children all the time through their actions, the choices they make and the things they say. With some simple skills and their loving care, they can teach their children what are likely the most important skills they will ever learn.

We take it for granted that our schools provide safe and meaningful experiences for children and, as a result, parents often focus more on their child’s achievement than on what values they are absorbing while at school and what they are learning about themselves.

This used to make perfect sense as we’ve historically used grades and achievement as the most important markers for how successful our kids will be in the future. While it’s generally true that schools and teachers have their students' best interests at heart, they also feel the pressure of needing to raise test scores as a measure of the success of their teaching. They often have little time and are under so much pressure to perform that their view of a student’s well-being may not be 20/20. Furthermore, they too are trying to balance their feelings and perspectives about how best to support students while also struggling with the impact of the world we currently live in.

Now more than ever, it is so important to build a bridge between school and home – so that parents can consciously help their children make sense of their school experience and support their emotional growth, providing them with a safe outlet for sharing their feelings about school, themselves and the complex times we find ourselves in. How do we build this bridge for our kids in-midst of our own hectic lives?

This may not be as complicated or time-consuming as it seems. And it may gift both us and our children a precious experience of growth. So many of us, adults, carry our own growth scars from our school experiences, which shape our perceptions and attitudes about education. Surfacing and and exploring allows us to make sense of them from a different perspective and gain insight into what our own children might be going through.

A few simple skills (maybe not so simple but learnable) like being fully present, listening deeply and reflecting back to them what you hear may be all that’s required. Building a habit of making room regularly for 10 or 15 uninterrupted minutes of conversation in our schedules can be so valuable. Making sense of and coming to a shared understanding of what our kids going through, entering their world while also sharing our own with them, can alleviate a lot of tension while also providing an opportunity to grow as human beings together.

In my experience, this is the most important skill we can teach children.

Here are a few steps for preparing for and showing up in these conversations – bringing ourselves in the NOW with our children – ready to listen and hold the space.

BRIDGE BUILDING

Bringing our minds in the NOW:

Sit upright with feet on the floor and feel your body on the surface that you're sitting on. Put your hands on your thighs. Notice any tension in your body and release it.

Watch your breath without doing anything. Just notice your breath going in and out and the rising and falling of your chest.

Take a few slow deep breaths in through your nose and gently out through pursed lips.

Return to regular breathing and open your eyes.

Reflective Questions to consider before, during and after the conversation:

What intention am I bringing to the conversation?

Am I focused on who they really are, or who I think they should be?

Am I asking curious questions, or taking over the conversation?

Am I listening without interrupting, bringing my full attention to the conversation?

How can I be sure what will be the right thing for them? Can I hold my certainties lightly?

Am I listening with curiosity, or with judgement?

What was my own experience with school and how does that influence my conversations with my child?

When the conversation is done, what did I learn about how I showed up?

If I imagine seeing myself through my child’s eyes – how did they see me show up in this conversation? What might I do differently next time?

Regularly practising being present and self-reflecting makes this easier and easier to do over time. The more aware you are of your inner world, the easier it is to create a calm sense within you. Yes, it will still be hard to quiet your mind, that’s natural. When you notice that you are lost in thought, simply acknowledge that and return to the present – without judgment.

Cultivating a habit of holding space for candid, non-judgemental conversations where you bring your full presence, will be teaching your child some powerful lessons for their emotional growth. They will learn what it feels like to be fully heard and accepted. They will experience feeling confident to share their thoughts and feelings and the calmness and safety of engaging with others this way. They will be learning who they are as you reflect back to them what you hear.

A few things to keep in mind as you start this practice:

Practising breathing and presence so that you can truly engage with your children is essential. In addition to creating regular times for you to talk, there are bound to be times when an impromptu situation arises and, with it, an opportunity to connect. The more that you practice and begin to embody what it feels like to be present, the more able you’ll be to show up in this way when they need you. Regular practice prior to beginning this with your child will be like rehearsing for those moments when there is no time to prepare, yet you need to be fully there.

Creating this kind of space will be a challenge for both of you. When something triggers either or both of you, it will be natural to default or fall back to your typical ways of engaging. It is human to lose perspective, to fall back - so be gentle with yourself and your child. As you get better at this, you can each point out what has happened and choose to reset and see it as a learning opportunity when it arises.

Practice and model being compassionate and accepting of yourself and your child, especially in your harder moments. Acknowledge the willingness to work at it and to show up no matter what. Small wins over time can help to build trust and a strong foundation going forward.

Building a Bridge together is a gift for you and your child. Be gentle with yourself and kind to one another.

Good luck on the journey!

If you have enjoyed this guest article by our friend and fellow researcher and practitioner Dr. Dan Kaufman, please check out the podcast we recorded Dan exploring adult development in education.

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Being an educator is, in our view, one of the hardest and most consequential professions in the world. Few other people, outside of family, have such a profound impact on children’s formative years as their teachers do. And the work of a teacher is about much more than information transfer. The values teachers embody through their behaviours every day, alongside the way classrooms, schools and education systems are run - all create what our guest in this episode - Dr. Dan Kaufman - beautifully calls ‘the hidden curriculum’ - a powerful and mostly invisible set of lessons our children absorb about what is true, what matters and how the world works.

Dan generously shared with us wisdom gathered over a lifetime of service as an educator and mentor of educators, and also, most importantly, a lifetime of work challenging and growing himself as a human being. He showed us how our deepest wounds can become our greatest gifts in life and provoked us to think about the role of education in a much broader way - as a vehicle for human ‘trans-formation’, rather than merely a process by which children receive ‘in-formation’. We hope every educator (and parent) listening to this episode will feel called to reflect and hopefully find a valuable new perspective or even an idea for a personal experiment towards growth. The comments section is open to all our paid subscribers - please share your insights and learnings!

Episode timeline

• [00:00:00 - 00:05:00] Introduction: how raising children can catalyze personal growth for parents and educators alike.

• [00:05:01 - 00:10:00] Dan’s Background: from a struggling student to an advocate for educational change, focusing on personal and professional growth.

• [00:10:01 - 00:15:00] Impact of School Experiences: how school experiences shape lifelong development and the importance of educators seeing the whole child.

• [00:15:01 - 00:20:00] Systemic Pressures: the tension between the academic pressures of education systems and the need to nurture students' personal development.

• [00:20:01 - 00:30:00] Horizontal vs. Vertical Development: we introduce horizontal (knowledge) and vertical (personal growth) development, stressing the need for educators to balance both.

• [00:30:01 - 00:40:00] Reflective Practice: peacemaking circles in schools as a way to enhance teacher self-awareness and create supportive learning environments.

• [00:40:01 - 00:50:00] Questioning Assumptions: the importance of educators questioning their own beliefs and assumptions to better support their students.

• [00:50:01 - 01:00:00] The Hidden Curriculum in schools, which subtly teaches students societal values beyond academic content.

• [01:00:01 - 01:10:00] Importance of Self-Awareness: the importance of ongoing self-awareness and personal growth for educators to effectively support students.

Guest Bio:

Dr. Dan Kaufman has spent his long career working for educational change and the personal and professional growth of educators.  Throughout his career, he has witnessed huge changes in our society as the population has more than doubled, our population has become more diverse, and the complexity of our lives and systems has grown dramatically.  A major focus of Dan’s work is helping educational leaders become more adept at dealing with and making sense of the increased challenges they face.  Dan also helps leaders to explore uncharted territory and to recognise the role that both their personal and professional development plays in supporting others, in shaping the lives and futures of young people and creating meaningful change in an ever-changing world. 

Dan has worked in a wide variety of school districts and schools at all levels from elementary, middle school and high school. He has provided coaching for teachers, principals and senior district administrators. He has also been a mental health counsellor in support of families struggling with the growth of their children. Dan’s many experiences have allowed him to develop a unique perspective of the role that public education plays in shaping the lives of young people and its role as a key player in shaping and supporting the larger culture of our society. 

If you are keen to connect with Dan, feel free to contact him via LinkedIn or email. contact him.

Are you new to Vertical (Adult) Development? Start by listening to this:

In this episode, we mention “development” several times and we briefly make the distinction between ‘horizontal’ and ‘vertical’ development. If you are keen to understand better how ‘vertical’ development unfolds, we encourage you to listen to this introductory podcast Alis recorded a while ago, exploring the stages of development humans go through throughout their lives:

Vertical Development: How Grown-ups Grow Up

What is Vertical Development and Why Does It Matter?

As our community has been growing quickly over the past months, and many of you are now starting to explore the topic of vertical development, you might enjoy listening to this early episode of The Developmental podcast as a springboard for any nerdy rabbit holes you might want to later throw yourselves into…

Listen now

4 years ago · 6 likes · Alis Anagnostakis, PhD

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Time changes us, adults, in subtle ways that are easy to overlook. Children seem to give us the true measure of its passing, always reminding us that we are no longer the same. But beyond the outward changes, there are others, much deeper, that you can’t see in the mirror. For nine years, I have honoured a lifelong commitment I made. I, who have always had (and still have) a visceral need for freedom, stepped into the only relationship in my life that I know is truly "until death do us part." My death, of course, because the alternative is unthinkable. And yet, the alternative is there, lurking at the edge of my consciousness, like a shadow I rarely dare to face, and when I do, the pain is instant and overwhelming.

The moment I decided to become a mother, I knew I was accepting the possibility of a pain beyond imagination. Of course, I hoped, and still hope, that I will never have to feel it, but the mere possibility of it constantly reminds me that I am nothing more than human: imperfect, vulnerable, full of fears and anxieties that I’m sure I didn’t feel as intensely when I had much less to lose. The absolute, unconditional love I feel for my child is both an enormous gift and a brutal measure of my fragility as a human being. At the same time, this love is perhaps the most precious foundation I can give her as she builds herself into a Person—someone who will be accompanied, lifted, and supported by a confident, solid sense of Self for the rest of her life, long after I’m no longer here to love her.

Sometimes, this child, who loves school and collects books, who is one of the most empathetic people I’ve ever met, who adores her friends and helps them in any way she can, who patiently explains things to younger children and dreams of becoming a teacher (or a vet or a herpetologist), who names every plant in the garden, saves every little bug and spider and cries for the fate of toys other kids leave behind in the park, puts me to the test. Would I accept her no matter what? Would I admire her more for making decisions that please me or judge her if she chooses something very different than I would? Do I need her too much? Would I lie to her just to take the fear away? Is my judgment sound enough?

"What if I didn’t want to go to college at all? What would you say?" "Nothing. I would cheer you on in finding a path that makes you happy and in building a life that has meaning for you."

"I’d like to get a PhD, become a researcher, and work to save endangered animals. What do you think?" "I’m sure if you persevere and are willing to work hard enough, you can do exactly what’s truly important to you."

"What if I didn’t want to have kids of my own? What would you say?" "Nothing. I’d respect your decision because you are the master of your own life, and you have the right to choose how to live it."

"What if I became a bad person and treated you badly? Would you still love me?" "Yes, I would love you. I wouldn’t accept your behaviour and would give you honest feedback, but I’d love you just as much."

"What if I killed someone? Would you still love me?" "Yes, I would love you no matter what. I’d be horrified by how something like that could happen, but my love for you would be the same."

"But if I didn’t exist, would you still have been happy?" "Yes, I would surely have been happy in a different way. I chose to invite a child into my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only good choice, nor that you’re my only source of happiness. I could have had a beautiful life in many other ways, and right now I have many other roles besides being your mother. I’m grateful that you’re here and I enjoy you and us immensely, and at the same time, there are many other things in my life that matter deeply to me—my work, my friends, my parents, your father—my beloved."

"I will never leave you and Daddy. I want to always be close to you." "I believe you’ll leave when the time comes, and our most important job is to help you think for yourself, have the confidence to go as far as you want, and the courage to find your way even when you get lost. We’ll be here whenever you want to come back, and at the same time, it’s okay if you don’t want to be that close to your parents anymore. You’ll have many other incredibly important people in your life besides us."

"I don’t want you to die." "I know. No one wants to be separated from the people they love. But death is a part of life, and we can’t run from it."

"But can you promise me you’ll live for a very long time?" "I can only promise that I’ll take care of myself as much as I can to be healthy and live as long as possible. But no one can promise they’ll live a long life - that’s not within our control."

"Please brush your teeth before we finish reading the last chapter of this book."
"But I want to brush my teeth after we finish reading. Why do you want me to brush them now?"
"Because I want you to be ready for bed when we finish reading."
"But that doesn’t really make sense - I’ll be ready for bed even if I brush my teeth after we read. I want to brush them at the end because if I do it now, I’ll rush through it thinking about the book waiting for me. If I do it after, I’ll do it properly, without rushing. What do you think? Is my argument stronger than yours?"
"Hmm, I think your argument is indeed stronger. I agree, you can brush your teeth afterwards."

No one has ever asked me these questions, and probably no one other than her ever will. She has become my most rigorous ‘self-awareness coach’—constantly forcing me to observe myself and see myself from the outside—whether I like what I discover or not.

From her, I’ve learned so much about my need for control, which often hides the fear of losing loved ones, and how I sometimes take away their freedom to temporarily shield myself from the spectre of suffering. From her, I’m learning the courage to love with all my heart and let go, even when my heart shrinks in fear. She’s teaching me how to make peace with this overwhelming sense of vulnerability, and she helps me discover the humility of accepting that, no matter what I do, I cannot protect her from the challenges life will throw her way.

She also helps me see how limited my perspective is and how irrational some of my beliefs are. From her, I’ve learned to love myself a little more, to forgive myself when I make mistakes (and how often I make them!), to question my truths, and to ask myself more often: “But why do you want to do this thing, precisely in this way, right at this very moment? What’s your argument?” She reminds me that I cannot avoid confronting the fragility of life, that contemplating death isn’t morbid at all—it’s a way to make peace with impermanence and be more present here and now.

We often talk about how we “raise kids” and how to “raise them better,” but we don’t talk enough about how they raise us if we let them show us the way to those dark corners within ourselves - the very ones we’re most afraid to look at. I believe it’s very hard to see ourselves from the outside, and our children’s eyes (or the eyes of the children in our lives, because you don’t have to be a parent to learn from children) may be some of the clearest (and hardest to face) mirrors that life gives us. Children haven’t yet learned to censor their questions or hide their emotions, and their reactions to us are a constant invitation to turn inward and reflect deeply. They compel us to do the hard work of growth that tears us down and rebuilds us from the inside out, transforming us into a more mature and self-aware version of ourselves.

Recently, alongside my friend, Valerie Livesay, I have been working on our fist developmental course for parents and educators - Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us - through which we aim to make this inner work visible, tangible and practical - offering it to parents, grandparents, uncles/aunts, teachers/educators, and any other adults who, in any role, support the growth of children. I deeply believe (and there is solid scientific evidence) that our inner growth never ends, and I also believe that our evolution toward greater wisdom has a direct and immediate impact on the growth of the children in our care.

I believe that beyond any parenting techniques—which are extremely useful in guiding us on what to do or say in various situations—lies our own maturity, and that maturity is not a given. It is a muscle we can systematically strengthen, and unfortunately, there aren’t many “gyms” for this type of training. Together with Valerie, I hope to create such a “gym”—a place where adults can read, listen to, or go through learning programs where the focus isn’t on “what to do” but on “how to be” in relation to the little (or bigger) humans we’re helping raise.

I hope we gather as many as possible in this “gym” to learn about ourselves from one another and through the eyes of our children. As for me, I know for sure I still have so much to learn.

Dive deeper

Join our in-depth, self-led developmental course for adults who raise and educate children - Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us. As a paid subscriber to this substack, you will receive a 50% discount on the price of the program (you will receive the code when you activate your paid subscription).

Head on to the program page to learn more.

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I still vividly remember the mixture of awe and impatience on our walks as my (then) toddler stopped to smell every flower, study every pebble and marvel at every insect along the way. For me, a working mom desperately trying to juggle the demands of a busy life, our walks were often functional. A chance to stretch our legs, take my daughter outside in the fresh air, and get her tired and ready for a healthy lunch and afternoon nap. I would have loved for us to actually ‘walk’ on our walks instead of taking 20 minutes to cover every 50 meters of our path around the block and into our local park. Sometimes we never made it to the park, because she was too fascinated by all the small treasures she’d discover along the way.

In my moments of clarity and reflection, I’d be able to slow my mind (and my body) enough to attune to her wonder. We’d kneel by the roadside to study a small flower that had seemed to appear overnight as if by magic. We’d stop and mourn over the dead body of a small bird, wondering what might have happened to it. I’d catch my breath as she asked, for the first time, what death was and what it felt like to be no more. I’d listen to her talk about her fear of death and ask me about my own. And then I’d answer in the best and most honest way I could that I too shared that fear and I didn’t know what death was, nor what it felt like. I remember the depth of that moment, as I stepped, for the first time, off the all-knowing pedestal my child had erected for me and revealed to her the excruciating vulnerability of being merely human. Had I not slowed enough to truly notice that dead bird and sit in the discomfort of studying it instead of quickly walking by, that precious, painful, beautiful moment would not have happened. And something might have been lost.

This dichotomy between our grown-up obsession to get to the outcome versus our children’s awareness that the Path itself is the gift has stayed with us through the years and its precious lessons have kept coming. The most recent iteration came as we - my husband, our now 9-year-old daughter and I - moved into a new home in Australia, the country that welcomed us almost six years ago and recently adopted us wholly as its citizens. We said goodbye to the rental that witnessed our new migrant unravellings and sinuous journey of starting life over and finding our feet in a new world, and moved 20 minutes away into our very own cozy little house - a green oasis holding the promise of a new beginning.

And while in every way this moment is a celebration, we are imperfect creatures, beholden to old patterns and always one step away from fallback. The last time we moved, 6 years previously - albeit an even more disruptive move, as it meant leaving our country and whole lives behind - my husband and I faced the biggest hurdle in our 12-year relationship. Our insecurities surfaced and every decision became a spark for conflict - what mattress to buy, how to assemble our new shelves (to this day I think IKEA furniture is the ultimate test of a relationship!), how to manage our daughter’s tantrums as she went through her own breakdown, grieving the loss of friends and struggling to adjust to school in a language she didn’t speak. Memorably, it was our new kitchen island that brought us as close to the brink of disaster as we’ve ever been as a couple but also served as a hugely important moment of reckoning about who we each were, how we made decisions and what we truly needed from each-other (an episode deserving its own story, which I’ve shared here).

Fast forward 6 years, and we were facing a new move. This time we were more settled, but not so settled as to have parted ways with our old gremlins. We had both wanted this home so much - seeing it as the culmination of a gruelling journey of rebuilding our lives. We both imagined the joy of seeing our daughter and her beloved dog run around in this bigger yard, the quiet dinner on our terrace, and the extra space for her to invite friends for sleepovers. Yet, between your ideal image of the destination and the convoluted journey of actually buying a house, there was a big space and in that space, our anxiety and impatience reared their heads. We started snapping at each other over how to negotiate a better price or who would better deal with the real estate agent. We hadn’t even signed the papers and the tension was palpable.

Then, one night, our wise kid looked at both of us and said: “Do you guys know I couldn’t care less where we live, as long as I’m with you both and my Otto?”. She paused, then she added: “But I do care about you two getting upset with each other.”

Her words hit us like a cold shower. There we were again. Falling back. Reverting to smaller versions of ourselves. And here was our 9-year-old reminding us what truly mattered. Again we were getting lost trying to reach an outcome. Again she forced us to slow down and smell the flowers along the way.

That night, after she went to bed, we sat down for a heart-to-heart. We realised how laser-focused we had been on completing this home-ownership process, how impatient and anxious we had become and how much our own well-being and our family’s harmony were falling by the wayside.

We gave ourselves grace - we were tired. Anybody who has been through a migration journey knows how taxing it can be. No wonder we couldn’t wait for this chapter to be over! We tapped into gratitude: we had come so far in such a short time! We had worked so hard and supported each other so fiercely! We had built a new life we all loved and had grown so much in the process. We tapped into love which, for both of us, is the very foundation spurring every choice we have ever made together - for each other and the child we adore. And then we tapped into humbleness - we had lost sight of what the intention of owning our home was all about - stability, joy, slow growth (versus all the running and goal chasing of previous years); quality time with each other; creating new happy memories for the next few years as our (still) young child is making her way into teenage land and then into adulthood.

We reframed our intention from “get into the new house” to “make the house move a joyful process for all three of us”. We decided to prioritise harmony and love over effectiveness. We reminded each other of our respective edges - my pattern of rushing things, hoarding responsibility by taking on every possible task and my husband’s pattern of risk aversion, seeing the possible negatives in most circumstances and needing more time to think through and work through options before making a decision. We acknowledged the clumsiness that made each of us terrible at DIY projects (and, together, disastrous) - a major source of frustration for both of us in the past. We vowed to stick with what we were good at - which meant NOT assembling any furniture ourselves.

I started sharing my seemingly endless to-do list with him and relished seeing the boxes being ticked off (and me not having to do it all). We consulted on every decision through the whole process and when unsure, slept on it before we took the next step (something that will always be excruciatingly hard for me). We got more accepting of delays and bureaucratic setbacks as normal parts of the process, versus ominous signs something was terribly wrong. We openly spoke of our anxiety without blaming each other for it. We held space for each of our worries without trying to make it better (sitting with a loved one’s discomfort instead of trying to fix it is SO hard, and yet SO healing). We paid more attention to the hints of exhaustion and overwhelm - our nerves on edge - and didn’t push conversations when our minds weren’t in the right place. We involved our daughter in decisions that impacted her and were reminded of how many sound and wise ideas she has. As a result, she felt more engaged in the whole process and more excited about the change. She also got to share some of the work with us, doing her bit of the thankless job of sorting, packing and sifting through years of accumulated ‘stuff’ - both in our old house and our minds and hearts. And we managed to do all of that together while keeping a sense of humour and playfulness.

Almost two months after that crossroad conversation we’re well and truly settled in our new home and - a first for us - we managed to navigate the whole process (almost) seamlessly. We stayed kind to each other and prioritised joy over efficiency every time.

We managed to laugh at our mistakes and appreciate the irony of our stumblings - and we did stumble! Like the other day when I bristled as our kid shook the milk bottle, the lid dropped and milk flew all over our shiny kitchen floor and she looked at me - a twinkle in her eye (and a mop in her hand) and said: “You do realise you’re getting worked up over spilt milk mom!” We all started laughing.

How many times in life do we get worked up over spilt milk? How many times in life do we rush towards a long-awaited milestone - at work or home - only to reach the end completely exhausted, our relationships in tatters, having had an utterly miserable time along the way and unable to fully enjoy the destination we’ve worked so hard to reach?

Again, my child is teaching me how to be more deserving of the title of ‘grown-up’. And frankly, I’m proud of how I’ve learnt this particular lesson and of the many patterns my husband and I managed to re-write in just a few short weeks!

Will this last? If experience is any guide, wisdom and maturity are not absolute faculties you access and never lose, but rather muscles you train over and over again. As soon as you stop training, your ‘maturity fitness’ starts dropping. I’m pretty sure my relationship has new rough patches ahead, but, if this experience has taught us anything, is that purposefully stopping to notice HOW we are travelling the path matters as much, if not more than WHERE we aim to get to.

Dive deeper

Join our in-depth, self-led developmental course for adults who raise and educate children - Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us. As a paid subscriber to this substack, you will receive a 50% discount on the price of the program (you will receive the code when you activate your paid subscription).

Head on to the program page to learn more.

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Today is the first day of school for my kiddos, and it’s a big one.  My son is entering high school; my daughter, fifth grade. They’ve been both dreading and excited for this day for the past week plus.

For both of my kids, what is expected of them is going to change drastically.

We’ve given my son some leeway in determining his own bedtime, hoping to empower him to make good choices in his own best interest. We’re considering letting him take public transit to school...a venture into independence that last night at dinner he called “scary.” The curriculum and offerings at this level are new, and now that he’s in high school, how he performs really counts as he considers his goals for the future and what it is going to take to achieve them. After comparing class schedules with his friends, he determined yesterday that there is no overlap…he will be “alone” in six classrooms filled with strangers. I told him it will be a great opportunity for him to practice being welcoming and friendly…starting with smiling, a visage that is seldom seen in the wilds of surly teendom. (The look on his face in response missed the mark of my suggestion by a mile.)

My daughter is at a school without her brother for the first time in 5 years (which is not necessarily a bad thing for either party). Fifth grade is the year that the teachers begin in earnest to prepare the students for the changing academic demands and hoped-for self-responsibility-taking of middle school.  She’s long been independent and self-motivated, tending to her own needs (generally) and quite happy to do so.  But she told me yesterday, “I’m going to have to get myself going in the morning.” (as she already does.) “I’m at the age that Daddy’s not going to come wake me up, anymore.” At the same time, the “news” are hard for her — new teacher, new classmates, old classmates that she was not especially looking forward to spending time with anew.

Both my kids went to their respective schools this morning with butterflies in their stomachs and obsessive worst case scenarios playing on repeat in their heads. As they have thousands of times in their young lives, today they faced into things that are unknown, scary, not mastered…things that are hard.

That is just part of life when you are a child—each day presenting seemingly endless new challenges.  And these new challenges that are a smidge out in front of what kids are just beginning to master are what nudges along their developmental unfolding. We adults expect this to be the case and we think very little of asking them to venture into the unfamiliar.

In the field of adult development, we talk about edges. What is at our developmental edge is that which we are only able to glimpse but not yet take in fully. It often scares the hell out of us and awakens feelings of incompetence. It is something that is just beyond our reach, that exists slightly beyond where we are developmentally.  Often. 

Sometimes, it’s a thing that tugs us back into a less mature way of knowing. We may have our full capacities in play until we encounter that person, or that thing, or walk into that circumstance that we haven’t yet gotten a handle on. This is the thing I study. When we fall back. In this case, we are frightened to do more than steal a glance, we are often uncertain how we might respond differently, and we inevitably fear something but we may not yet know exactly what that thing is.

In both cases, noticing what these edges are for each of us, walking up to them, getting curious about them, and experimenting with coming to know this unfamiliar terrain is a pathway to our conscious growth.  And it is hard. 

We adults are generally out of practice. We do the things we know how to do, that we are good at, that don’t set the insects aflutter inside our bellies and the dreaded scenarios to run loops through our minds.

But we, too, can do hard things.  And, if we want to grow to be more conscious, more mature, more aware, we should.

As a parent, I have made the choice to (attempt to) model the behavior that I ask of my kids. As someone who researches adult development and accompanies others in their growth, I’ve made the choice to grow on purpose.  As a human, I’ve made the choice to push into my edges, both forward and back, so I might discover and live into a fuller and more authentic me that has more choices. And sometimes, it’s hard.

Through my research and practice, I have created an approach to coming into relationship with my edges – leading and trailing alike – that is built around the metaphor of theater.  I accompany folks in identifying the characters that make up their ensemble of self, the backstories that inform these characters’ development, the roles these characters can, do, and might want to take up, and the scenes that are likely to populate the play of their lives.  Hell, my book and business names were inspired by theater lore. 

And, I’m scared as hell to get on stage. (Not the metaphorical one…the literal one.)

So, when I received a message from The Old Globe Theater that they were looking to cast walk-on roles with members of the community in Henry 6, I felt the tingle of excitement (that we rarely get in adulthood), followed by the drag of self-doubt (which is a frequent visitor in [my own] grown-up-ness), and in spite of that, I threw my hat into the ring.  And I was chosen!  And by chosen, I mean I was selected at somewhat random based on my demographics and availability, sight-unseen. In truth it was a crapshoot for the good folks at The Old Globe. But for me, it was a sure thing. Not because I thought it would be easy. But because I knew it would be hard.

I am scared as hell to perform, to step on any stage, for any reason, though I am regularly outward facing in my work. But to take the role of actor...on a renowned theater stage…with individuals who have dedicated their lives to developing and delivering the craft…well that takes the fear to a whole new level.  And I knew I must. 

I needed to do it for my kids, to step to the edges of my comfort and my knowing, as they have been challenged to do most days of their lives, and to have them witness me do it. 

I needed to do it for me…to face an old fear and determine if it had the same stickiness that it did before (it did not), to inquire into what felt most scary to me (being in the spotlight when I was very clear I was not good at something…yet), and to open myself up to experiencing something new (the exhilaration was palpable). 

In order to grow ourselves as we raise our children, we need to do hard things.  And we can. 

We humans have limitless capacity to expand how we see the world and how we see ourselves in it.  We can choose to opt in for the hard things that remind us that we can do hard things, that we are a miraculous piece of machinery that has everything it needs to upgrade its operating system to meet the changing demands and complexity of our worlds and the desires for who and how we wish to be for ourselves and the humans we grow.  It is often hard (and scary, and uncertain, and enlivening, too).  And, we can do hard things.

Dive deeper

Join our in-depth, self-led developmental course for adults who raise and educate children - Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us. As a paid subscriber to this substack, you will receive a 50% discount on the price of the program (you will receive the code when you activate your paid subscription).

Head on to the program page to learn more.

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In this episode of the "Growing Humans" podcast, we explore, together with our dear friend, Kim Dawe, the transformative journey of motherhood and its intersection with workplace performance. We each share our own stories of becoming mothers - from the decision to bring a child into the world, to the actual moment of birth and the discombobulating adventure of the first few months of parenthood - and the impact they have had on our becoming.

Kim offers her experiences and wisdom as a mother, a human development expert and a birth doula, reminding us of the importance of choice, empowerment, and intuition in the birthing and parenting journey. She invites us to notice the depth of perspectives and capabilities a new mother gains and how valuable they can be not just at home, but in the workplace - and how much is lost when women returning to work after having a baby are not seen as the precious resources they truly are.

Episode Timeline

• [00:01:18] Guest introduction

• [00:05:31] Kim's journey into motherhood

• [00:15:03] Choice and conscious decision-making

• [00:24:49] The role of intuition in birth and afterwards

• [00:35:19] Empowerment and letting go

• [00:46:50] Learning from postpartum challenges

• [01:02:33] Developmental growth through parenthood

• [01:13:35] The gifts of new mothers in the workplace

Leadership books Kim recommends:

Frederic Laloux: Reinventing Organisations

Jonathan Reams (Ed): Maturing Leadership

Guest Bio: Kimberley Dawe

Kim Dawe is a highly experienced, values-led, and commercially minded Leadership Development practitioner and leader. She leads teams to design and deliver transformative leadership development solutions in service of developing purposeful and adaptive leaders/organisations who thrive in complexity.

Kim is currently studying and is interested in how we can integrate the lessons, skills and mindsets from birth and motherhood into leadership.

She asking the questions:

• What growth/transformation occurs for women in becoming a mother?

• What would happen if we provided different support structures and scaffolds around women during this season?

• How could we harness the transformation that occurs during birth for leadership development?

• How do we shift the narrative of ‘time out of the workforce’ to ‘accelerated leadership potential’?

Are you new to Vertical (Adult) Development? Start by listening to this:

In this episode, we mention “development” several times. If you are not familiar with the notion of “adult (vertical )development”, we encourage you to listen to this introductory podcast Alis recorded a while ago, exploring what vertical development is and the stages of development humans go through throughout their lives:

Vertical Development: How Grown-ups Grow Up

What is Vertical Development and Why Does It Matter?

As our community has been growing quickly over the past months, and many of you are now starting to explore the topic of vertical development, you might enjoy listening to this early episode of The Developmental podcast as a springboard for any nerdy rabbit holes you might want to later throw yourselves into…

Listen now

4 years ago · 6 likes · Alis Anagnostakis, PhD

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Join our in-depth, self-led developmental course for adults who raise and educate children - Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us. As a paid subscriber to this substack, you will receive a 50% discount on the price of the program (you will receive the code when you activate your paid subscription).

Head on to the program page to learn more.

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As a paid subscriber, we’ll welcome you into a smaller, closer-knit community where we regularly meet, share, and learn together. You will have access to the chat and comments on every article, as well as dedicated, facilitated fireside chats for the community.

You will also receive a 50% discount on our self-led program for parents and educators: Growing Humans: How Raising Children Raises Us.

Growing Humans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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