Lean In- Noticing the unspoken grief of parenting, navigating its complexity, and finding joy within it.

I’m Suzanne—a mum, occupational therapist, and long-time listener to the quiet wisdom that families carry. Lead Together is a space where parents lead, services follow, and your vision for your child’s life is honoured from the start. You are the expert. I’m here to walk beside you.

Dear fellow parent,

Thank you for being here. Maybe you’re reading this as you wait at the bus stop, or maybe in that quiet stretch before bedtime routines begin. However you’ve arrived, I’m grateful we’re side by side.

Last time in Lean In, we explored: Noticing, Affirming, and Needing.

This month, I want to travel with a theme that many of us carry but rarely speak aloud: grief.

Grief for the child we imagined.

Grief for the weight of constant advocacy.

Grief for the complexity of parenting in systems that don’t always understand.

Grief is not a sign of weakness or failure.

It’s one of the passengers on our bus — as real as joy, as loyal as hope, as persistent as exhaustion. And part of our work as parents is to learn how to ride with all of them, not just the ones who look tidy.

Perfection says: “You should have this all figured out by now.”But grief answers: “It’s okay not to be okay.”

So this month, through our compass points — Lean In, Engage, Adapt, Discover — we’ll listen to grief in different ways: noticing it, taking small steps alongside it, shifting from doing to being with it, and even discovering the gifts it sometimes hides.

And maybe, if we leave a little space on the seat, a tiny ladybird will climb aboard too — not to erase grief, but to keep it company with a touch of polka-dot humor.

This week, I want to explore how we can Lean In to noticing our grief.

Because when we walk with our children through the twists and turns of development, school, and everyday life, grief often rides along — quiet, tender, sometimes heavy.

1. Body

When I think of grief and the pressure of labelling the cannot do:

• My chest aches with the weight of letting go of old expectations.

• My shoulders carry the strain of constant advocacy.

• My breath shortens with the awareness that parenting here is more complex than the stories I once imagined.

This is grief speaking through my body — not as betrayal, but as a companion. It remembers. It protects. It tells me I am carrying love that sometimes hurts.

And when it feels too much? That’s when I imagine the tiny ladybird climbing onto my shoulder, tickling me just enough to remind me: “Yes, this is heavy. But look — there’s still room for small joys, even silly ones.”

2. Story

The system often tells one story: what is “missing,” what is “behind,” what is “different.”

But grief reminds me there is another story: the joy of unexpected milestones, the tenderness of challenges faced together, the courage of a child who lives outside neat categories.

Grief lives in the collision of these stories: the loss of one narrative and the deepening of another. Both deserve noticing.

And if I’m lucky, that little ladybird shows up again, crawling across the paper where the deficit story is written, leaving polka-dot footprints that say: “This isn’t the only story.”

3. Breath

Here’s where I lean in.

When grief swells — when my throat tightens, when my eyes sting — I try to return to one simple thing: breath.

One breath for what I imagined. One breath for what is true.

A way of saying: “I honour both the loss and the life that is here.”

And maybe, just maybe, that third tiny breath — the one I didn’t plan — belongs to the ladybird, who insists on breathing alongside us.

This week, try this:

• Body: Notice how grief shows up in your body. Is it heaviness? Tension? Quiet fatigue? Write it down.

• Story: Name one story you’ve had to let go of. Then name one story of resilience or beauty that has emerged in its place. Hold them both with gentleness.

• Breath: Take two breaths: one for what has been lost, one for what is still unfolding. (And if a third sneaks in — maybe that’s the ladybird’s.)

  
  

A Glimpse Ahead:

Next time, we’ll move toward the “E” in our L-E-A-D framework: Engage.

And always:

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 notice grief as a companion.

May we honour the stories it carries.

May we return to the breath that makes room for both loss and love.

And may we leave just enough space on the bus seat for a ladybird with polka dots, reminding us that even in grief, delight is not gone — it’s just very small, and very patient.

Take all of the care,

Suzanne

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