Finding My Pace

And what I’ve noticed along the way

At various points this summer, I had been looking ahead to the fall.  Having only one child at home rather than summer’s three, I imagined that I would be able to finally find time to move forward on some of the “work” ideas that had been incubating since the spring.  

I would log more coaching hours to get closer to certification, maybe prepare some neurodiversity paradigm study group materials or a webinar for parents of newly identified autistic kids to offer a more affirming perspective on the diagnostic process.

I would keep posting regularly to Divergently Yours and experiment with what additional “paid” content might look like. I would facilitate another round of the peer support group that launched last spring—or maybe two rounds because I know there are so many parents needing support!

Instead . . . I have done none of the above.  

I have struggled to find an uninterrupted block of time even to write, letting my goal of a weekly essay slip to bi-weekly (or even not quite as this has taken an additional week to get to publication!).  

When I started this essay, I was typing from the kitchen counter while I waited for our school morning mini-muffins to be done baking. My helpers had moved on to tv and I had ten minutes to write before the timer would send me to the next to-do.  Ready, go!

. . . 

On the work front last month, I did not do more.  I did less. 

And, for the most part, it felt right.

Not as a new normal but as an acceptance and honoring of the moment, while there. An acknowledgement of the messiness and confusion of transition and trusting that there will be other seasons, where more may seem possible. 

. . . 

In the last few weeks, I have taken my first steps in facilitating homeschool for my son. We are following his lead toward self-directed education and have been figuring out what that looks like for us.  

I have been gently noticing my tendency to feel like I should be “doing” more in that role.  Then, as in cosmic response, sitting back to revel in the unconventional wonderings and unsequenced leaps in his comprehension borne of nothing but natural curiosity and the desire to learn about his world.

[Image description: Paved walking path with green tree canopy and fallen leaves along the ground. At middle distance, a child with long blond hair wearing green pants and a striped shirt walks away from the camera.]

At the slower pace, I am noticing more about his strengths, challenges, and interests.  With few external expectations, we can explore together and experiment based on our energy levels and inclinations of the day.

I am noticing that some days unfold with ease—we drift together and apart with few words, sharing space and ideas comfortably.  Other days, we push and pull, out of sync, clunky and irritable in our interactions.  

I find myself both craving and avoiding structure, wanting stability and predictability along with flexibility and occasional spontaneity.  

I have so far resisted the impulse to search the internet for perfect organizing principles. Part of me laments my need to reinvent the wheel when there are social media groups full of generous neurodivergent parents sharing their hard won wisdom and experience that just may work for us, too.  

But I also have a sense that maybe the work to be done is to allow each period of discomfort to give us a little more information about how we operate, individually and together.  Maybe the promise of improved efficiency in this particular endeavor is actually a distraction.

Over time, I hope that we will settle into a loose rhythm that works for us most days, until, of course, it doesn’t and we begin again, ever evolving.

. . . 

I am trying to be present and attuned as my daughters settle into new school routines and relationships.  I am doing the laundry, “resetting” the play spaces, and piecing together meals as best I can on any given day.  I am noticing a deep sense of grief arising in varied circumstances that somehow feels both current and past.  I am trying to honor that and let it flow.  (When I mentioned this to a friend, she said that grief is the emotion of autumn—maybe I’m not alone?). I am continuing to learn about neurodiversity and compassion and coaching and living creatively, one email, article, book, or webinar at a time.

I find myself still finding comfort in listing out the things I am doing as a counter to the emotional weight of the potentially income-producing things I am not doing.  

One morning last weekend, I sat alone at the dining room table, feeling the warmth of my tea mug between my hands and added to this essay.  Two of the kids had fevers the day before and all had slept in. It was a moment of tangibly feeling the gift of slowing down and letting be, even as the world swirls around us.  

. . . 

Wherever you find yourself on this early autumn day, and whatever you imagined that has turned out differently, may you know the peace of trusting your pace and your path.  You are exactly where you need to be to take your next beautiful courageous step.