When Your Child’s World Tilts: How to Be Their Anchor When You’re Traumatized Too
It All Begins Here
I was at the height of my career—flying home from New York City to attend an event at the United Nations about trauma in children—when my own world abruptly tilted.
Somewhere over the Midwest, my phone buzzed with a text from my husband: “[Our daughter] has little red spots on her legs.” I asked him to send me a picture. Tiny red dots scattered across her skin. As a psychologist who works with medical trauma, I knew this could be nothing… or something.
I landed late that night and peeked in on her sleeping. She looked fine. I told myself I was being paranoid.
The next morning, I woke her up for school. As she sat up, my heart dropped. Overnight, those small red spots had multiplied, and now her arms and legs were covered in large, dark purple bruises. Her torso was mottled. Her skin looked like a map of something terrible.
Calling her pediatrician set off a chain reaction—stat blood work, rushing to the ER, doctors moving quickly but speaking in hushed, serious tones. Within hours, we had a diagnosis: immune thrombocytopenia (ITP), a rare bleeding disorder.
Her platelet count, they told us, was the lowest her pediatrician had seen in her entire career. Any small bump to her head, any internal injury, could result in what they candidly called a “catastrophic bleed.”
As a psychologist specializing in child trauma, I know that when something frightening happens, children are watching their caregivers closely. They’re not just listening to our words but scanning our faces, our breathing, our tone of voice. They’re asking, “Am I safe?” and “Are you okay enough to keep me safe?”
If we show them we are terrified, their terror amplifies. If we can act steady and grounded, even when we’re shaken, they feel more secure and contained.
Parents often ask me: “How can I help my child through something traumatic when I’m traumatized myself?”
You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be unshakable. But there are concrete things you can do to project enough calm to anchor your child, even while your own insides are churning.
Here are a few practical strategies that helped me—and that I now share with the families I work with.
1. Regulate your breathing (even if nothing else feels under control)
When something terrifying happens, your body does exactly what it’s wired to do: Your sympathetic nervous system flips on. Heart races, muscles tense, breathing becomes rapid and shallow. This “fight-or-flight” response is adaptive in true emergencies but it also makes you feel more anxious, more flooded, and less able to think clearly.
Your child is reading that state in you.
One of the simplest, most powerful tools you have in those moments is your breath. When we emphasize our exhale over our inhale, breathing can help activate your body’s relaxation response (the parasympathetic nervous system), which slows your heart rate, steadies your thoughts, and softens your facial expressions and tone of voice—all of which your child will pick up on.
There are many different breathing scripts out there, but when you are in a panic, I find it’s best to go with simple. My go-to breathing mantra is “in through the nose, out through the mouth.” Because the breathing holes in our nose are smaller and more restricted than our mouth, this will help ensure we take in less oxygen, and emphasize our exhales.
2. Use healthy distraction—on purpose
When something frightening is happening, it can feel like you must focus on it constantly, as if vigilance will somehow keep your child safe. But neither you nor your child is built to stay in a state of high alert all the time. You both need breaks.
Distraction is not denial. It’s a way of giving your nervous system and your child’s nervous system short pockets of relief so you can come back to the hard stuff with more capacity.
Some ideas:
Do the daily Wordle or a puzzle together. Let yourselves get absorbed, just for a few minutes, in something completely unrelated to doctors and diagnoses.
Swap silly stories from your day, or share light, age-appropriate “gossip.”
Watch a short, favorite show or a movie scene that always makes you both laugh.
Play “categories” (name animals, foods, superheroes, etc.) or a simple card game in the waiting room.
When my daughter and I were in and out of the hospital, we created tiny rituals of distraction: a particular snack we only ate after blood draws (crispy tuna bites), a game we only played in waiting rooms, a running joke about the hospital smells. These small, ordinary moments were lifelines. They reminded both of us that even in the scariest seasons, life still contained pockets of normalcy and even joy.
3. Protect your own basics: sleep, food, and movement
In crisis, parents often go into sacrifice mode: skipping meals, sleeping in chairs, ignoring their own physical needs. It’s understandable—and unsustainable.
Your brain and body cannot function well on adrenaline alone. When you’re sleep-deprived, underfed, and physically depleted, your emotional regulation plummets. You’re more likely to snap, cry, or freeze in front of your child. This is not because you’re a bad parent, but because your system is running on fumes.
To the extent possible:
Eat regularly. It doesn’t have to be perfect nutrition; it just has to exist. Keep easy, portable snacks on hand (nuts, granola bars, cheese sticks, fruit).
Hydrate. Dehydration worsens fatigue and anxiety. Keep a water bottle nearby.
Sleep when you can. Trade off with another adult if possible. Even a short nap can improve your capacity to cope and to be present with your child.
Move your body. A short walk around the hospital corridors, a few stretches in a quiet corner, or simply standing up and rolling your shoulders can discharge some of the pent-up energy of stress.
It can help to reframe this: Taking care of your own basic needs is not selfish; it’s part of taking care of your child. Your stability is one of your child’s most important sources of safety. Keeping your body supported is one way you protect that stability.
4. Reach out for your own support
Even when your child is the one in the hospital bed, you are also going through something potentially traumatic. Your fear doesn’t cancel out your child’s experience, and your child’s experience doesn’t cancel out yours. Both matter.
Parents often tell me they feel they “should” be able to handle it alone, or that asking for help would take resources away from their child. In reality, getting support for yourself usually helps you be more present and effective for your child.
Consider:
Emotional support. Call or text a trusted friend or family member and give yourself permission to be honest: “I’m terrified.” “I feel numb.” “I don’t know how to do this.” Being witnessed and held emotionally helps metabolize trauma.
Practical support. Let others bring meals, take care of siblings, handle logistics, or sit with your child while you shower or nap. Think of your support system as part of your child’s care team.
Professional support. A therapist—especially someone familiar with medical trauma or crisis—can be invaluable. You don’t have to wait until “after it’s all over.” Support during the crisis can reduce long-term traumatic impact for you and your child.
Peer support. If your child has a medical condition, there may be parent groups (online or in-person) where others truly understand the specific fears and rollercoaster you’re on.
It can feel vulnerable to say, “I need help.” But sometimes the bravest, most protective thing you can do for your child is to refuse to go through this alone.
When I look back on that season with my daughter—those early days of terrifying lab values and unfamiliar medical language—I don’t remember myself as perfectly calm or endlessly wise. I remember crying in my car, Googling too much, negotiating with the universe in the quiet of hospital hallways.
But I also remember sitting on her hospital bed, doing silly quizzes on my phone with her, singing Taylor Swift to distract from blood draws, and texting friends from the hallway so I could release my own fear before walking back into her room.
You don’t have to be a trauma expert to help your child through a frightening experience. You just have to be a “good enough” anchor—a person who is trying, imperfectly, to steady themselves so they can steady their child.
Your child is not looking for a superhero. They’re looking for you: breathing, distracting, eating, sleeping, reaching out, and showing them moment by moment that even in the scariest times, they are not alone.
If You Don’t Talk to Your Kids About Sex, Someone Else Will
It All Begins Here
Some of the hardest, most important conversations we have as parents are about sex.
Not because our kids are doing something wrong, but because they’re growing, curious human beings living in a world that will absolutely talk to them about bodies, sex, and sexuality… whether we do or not.
Many parents tell me, “I want to get this right, but I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing.” So they wait. Or say nothing. Or hope school/peers/Google will somehow handle it well.
Silence, though, doesn’t create safety. It creates a vacuum. And something will rush in to fill it.
Thoughtful, ongoing conversations about sex and sexuality are not just about “the talk.” They’re about three crucial forms of protection and connection:
Prevention of sexual abuse
Teaching kids they can bring hard, awkward topics to you
Making sure they get accurate, developmentally appropriate information, not whatever pops up on a screen or in a locker room.
Let’s walk through why this matters so much, and how you can approach it even if you feel awkward, squeamish, or unsure where to start.
1. Talking about sex is a powerful tool for preventing sexual abuse
Many parents assume that talking about sex will make kids more vulnerable or “too curious.” The data and clinical experience suggest something very different:
Kids who have accurate language and information about their bodies are often better protected.
Naming body parts = naming boundaries
When children know the correct names for all their body parts (including genitals) it sends several quiet but powerful messages:
“These parts of your body are not shameful or unspeakable.”
“If something happens to these parts, you’re allowed to tell me.”
“We can talk about everything, even the ‘private’ stuff.”
It also gives them the tools to clearly report something if it goes wrong. “He touched my vagina” is much harder for adults to ignore or misunderstand than “He touched my cookie” or “They showed me their peanuts.”
Predators often rely on secrecy, shame, and confusion. When kids:
Know the difference between “okay” touch and “not okay” touch
Have been told that no one, including people they know, should ask them to keep secrets about touching or private pictures
Hear, clearly, “If anyone ever does something with your body that makes you feel uncomfortable, confused, or icky, you will never be in trouble for telling me”
…they are less easy to manipulate and more likely to disclose early.
Clear rules about bodies and consent
Age‑appropriate conversations about consent don’t start at age 16. They start with:
Teaching kids they can say no to hugs or kisses, even from relatives.
Respecting their “no,” so they learn their body is truly theirs.
Explaining:
Adults never need help with their own private parts.
Older kids/teens should not be asking to see or touch their private parts.
No one is allowed to take pictures of their private parts or show them private pictures of other people.
These early, simple rules build a protective framework. When something doesn’t fit, like an adult asking a child to keep touching a secret, the child has a mental “this is not okay” template and a parent they know they can tell.
2. Talking about sex teaches kids: “You can bring hard things to me.”
Sex is not just about mechanics. It’s about curiosity, embarrassment, identity, peer pressure, values, and sometimes, shame.
If the only messages kids receive about sex are:
“We don’t talk about that.”
“That’s gross/dirty/naughty.”
Or tight‑lipped silence…
They don’t just learn “don’t mention sex.” They learn: “When something feels big, confusing, or shame-y, I handle it alone.”
That belief doesn’t stay limited to sexuality. It generalizes to:
“I shouldn’t tell my parents I’m being bullied.”
“I can’t tell them I saw porn that scared me.”
“I definitely can’t tell them I’m questioning my gender or who I’m attracted to.”
“If a partner pressures me, I’ll have to figure it out on my own.”
When you initiate conversations about sex you’re sending a deeper message:
“In this family, we talk about real things, even if they’re uncomfortable. Your questions and feelings are welcome.”
That means:
When they see something disturbing online, they’re more likely to come to you.
When a friend says something that doesn’t sound right, they might ask you to help them sort it out.
When they start dating, they already have a template: “Hard topics go to my parent, not just my peers.”
You do not have to be a perfect, endlessly calm sex educator to send this message. You can:
Admit you feel awkward: “This feels a little weird to talk about because my parents never did this with me but I really want us to be able to talk openly.”
Take breaks: “I need a minute to think about how to answer that, but I’m really glad you asked.”
Correct yourself later: “I’ve been thinking about what you asked yesterday, and I want to add something.”
Your kids are not grading your performance. They are tracking your availability.
3. If you don’t talk about sex, the internet and peers will, and not kindly
We live in a world where, with one wrong click, a child can be exposed to graphic sexual content long before they are developmentally ready to understand it.
If you delay or avoid these conversations, it does not mean your child remains innocent and untouched by information. It usually means:
Their first exposure to sexual content is confusing, aggressive, or degrading, not loving, mutual, or respectful.
Their “education” comes from:
Pornography designed for adult fantasy, not child development
Equally confused peers
TikTok, Reddit, or other corners of the internet with wildly inaccurate or extreme content
Kids then build their beliefs around:
“This is how bodies are supposed to look.” (Filtered, edited, surgically altered)
“This is what people owe each other in relationships.” (Often coercive, performative, or disconnected from consent)
“This is what sex always looks like.” (Scripted, not real; no awkwardness, no communication, no contraception or STI discussion)
When you talk to your kids, you can:
Give accurate, age‑appropriate information not everything, all at once, but piece by piece.
Pair facts with your family’s values:
How we treat people.
What respect and consent look like.
How we think about pleasure, privacy, and safety.
Name media for what it is:
“Porn is like a highly edited movie. It’s not what real relationships or real bodies look like.”
“People online can lie about their age, their intentions, and their identity.”
You become the trusted filter through which they make sense of what they see and hear.
What this can look like in real life (even if you feel awkward)
You don’t need a perfect script, but it helps to have a few anchors:
Start earlier and smaller than you think
You might begin with:
Correct names for body parts in toddlerhood.
Simple rules: “No one touches the parts your swimsuit covers, except to help keep you clean or healthy, and only if you say it’s okay and I know about it.”
Reassurances: “If anyone ever asks you to keep a secret about touching or pictures, tell me right away. You will never be in trouble.”
As they grow:
Add basic info about puberty before their body starts changing.
Explain what periods are, what erections are, why bodies smell different, why privacy matters.
Normalize questions: “You’re going to hear stuff at school or online. If something confuses or worries you, let’s talk about it together.”
Admit discomfort and do it anyway
You’re allowed to say:
“My parents never talked to me about this, so I’m learning as I go.”
“I feel a little awkward, but you matter more than my embarrassment.”
“I might not have all the answers right away, but I will always work to get you good information.”
Modeling imperfect courage is far more powerful than polished silence.
The deeper message beneath the words
When you choose to talk with your kids about sex and sexuality, you are not just teaching them about bodies and behavior. You’re teaching them:
My body is mine.
My questions are welcome.
My parent can handle my curiosity, my mistakes, and my fear.
I don’t have to face confusing or scary things alone.
That foundation pays off not only in sexual safety and health, but in everything else that will stretch them as they grow: friendships, mental health struggles, identity questions, heartbreak, peer pressure.
You don’t have to get every word right. You just have to show up, over and over, as a “good enough” guide, someone who is willing to be a little uncomfortable in service of your child’s safety and wholeness.
Childhood Dissociation: More Than Just Zoning Out
It All Begins Here
In recent years, dissociation has become the "diagnosis du jour" across mental health communities online. Many teens can hardly scroll through TikTok or Instagram without encountering a reel about “spacing out,” “losing time,” or feeling “like a different person.” What was once a lesser-known psychological phenomenon is now being discussed, dissected, and often misunderstood.
What Is Dissociation?
Dissociation is a defense mechanism that people of all ages sometimes use during frightening or overwhelming experiences. It is a psychological strategy the brain can employ when we feel helpless, terrified, or unable to escape a dangerous situation. When children dissociate, they mentally block off thoughts, feelings, or memories associated with trauma. They may feel detached from their surroundings or even from their own body, as though they’re floating above the room or watching a scary event happen to someone else. This isn't a conscious choice. It’s a protective response, the mind’s way of shielding itself from harm when no external help is available.
What Dissociation Can Look Like in Children
Because dissociation is an internal process, its outward signs can be confusing or even misinterpreted by adults. It may be labeled as misbehavior, lying, or attention-seeking,\ while the child may be doing their best to survive overwhelming stress.
Some possible signs of dissociation in children include:
Forgetfulness about scary events known to have occurred
Dazed or trance-like states, sometimes described as “spacing out”
Behavioral regression
Difficulty learning from consequences
Lying despite evidence indicating a lie
Vivid imaginary friends that influence the child’s actions
Auditory or visual hallucinations
It’s important to remember: these are not signs of manipulation or a broken child. Rather, they can be signs of a child who has had to learn to disconnect in order to cope.
The explosion of dissociation-related content on social media has its benefits. People feel seen. Trauma survivors discover language for what they’ve endured. Dissociation, once shrouded in shame or confusion, is finally being acknowledged. However, the trendiness of the term can also obscure its meaning. What’s often missing in viral posts is context. Dissociation is not just “zoning out” when you’re bored; rather, it’s a patterned, often involuntary reaction to prolonged distress. Reducing it to quirky traits or self-diagnosed memes risks trivializing the real pain that underlies it, especially for those who developed these patterns in early childhood due to trauma, neglect, or fear.
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A touching representation of dissociation as a coping mechanism can be found in My Neighbor Totoro, the beloved animated film by Studio Ghibli. At first glance, it’s a whimsical story about two sisters who discover forest spirits while their mother battles a serious illness. But beneath its enchanting surface lies a subtle, deeply emotional truth. The story follows Satsuki and Mei, two young girls navigating the uncertainty of their mother’s prolonged hospitalization. The anxiety and helplessness they experience feel too heavy for them to face head-on. In those intense moments of fear and despair, Totoro appears. Not to fix everything, but to offer comfort, wonder, and escape. Totoro is not just a figment of imagination, but a gentle, protective force that allows the girls to temporarily step out of their fear and into something magical.
Dissociation isn’t a fad, and it’s not just a diagnosis. It’s a survival instinct, especially for children who had to make sense of a world that didn’t make room for their fear or pain. Whether it shows up in therapy rooms, TikTok videos, or Studio Ghibli films, by understanding it more deeply, we can dispel some of the fear behind the new "diagnosis du jour."
Why This Psychologist is a Bonafide Swiftie
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Standing outside the New Orleans Superdome, hours before Taylor Swift was due to take the stage, one woman stood alone in the crowd. Dressed in an elegant white ballgown, she raised up a cardboard sign that read, in bold black letters, “The smallest man who ever lived”—a reference to the eponymous Tortured Poets track. One by one, fellow concert-goers clad in sequined body suits and bejeweled dresses approached her. She handed each fan a fabric marker, inviting them to write the names of their smallest men—men who had broken their hearts, made them feel lesser-than, shocked them with betrayal. I watched for several moments, transfixed by how these women came together to share their emotional pain.
As a psychologist, I spend a lot of time thinking about how people manage emotional pain. Defense mechanisms—strategies we use to protect ourselves from emotional distress—organize how I think about coping. Some defense mechanisms may be considered “less mature” and can lead to problems in our relationships, employment, and even our feelings about ourselves. Consider how your partner might respond to a cold “It’s fine” mid-argument when your tone conveys otherwise. Passive aggression like this is not the most effective way to respond to feeling angry at your partner, and it can leave them feeling confused and helpless rather than apologetic.
Other defenses are considered more “mature” and can help us thrive when we encounter painful situations. Affiliation refers to the practice of turning to others for closeness or emotional support amid pain. Witnessing my fellow fans come together to connect as they inscribed the names of those who had hurt them on a ballgown brought to life the power of our affiliation as Swifties.
The first time I listened to Taylor’s Reputation album, I knew I had a great way to explain self-assertion to my Swiftie patients. Self-assertion is another mature defense that is all about standing up for our feelings, beliefs, and desires, even when faced with opposition or pushback, expressing ourselves directly and confidently, even if it might feel difficult or intimidating.
After being vilified in the media for her perceived feuds and deceptiveness, Taylor emerged on this album with a new persona that was unapologetic, direct, and empowered. The album is full of tracks where she stands up for herself and defies the narratives imposed upon her. In “Look What You Made Me Do,” Taylor sings about reclaiming her power and rejecting those who tried to tear her down, signaling both a sense of betrayal and an unflinching commitment to protecting herself. Not only do her lyrics promote self-assertion but her act of re-recording and re-releasing Taylor’s Version of her six original albums so that she can retain ownership of her music puts the lyrics into practice.
In a tense conflict, it’s easy to shrink back when others challenge us, but Taylor’s music and example reminds us that standing firm in our identity and asserting our boundaries can be a crucial part of emotional well-being.
Sublimation—the process of channeling emotional pain into socially acceptable behaviors or creative outlets—is another mature defense. When we experience uncomfortable emotions like rage, despair, or envy, sublimation allows us to transform those negative feelings into something positive, whether it’s through competitive sports, volunteerism, or songwriting.
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Over the years, Taylor has taken the pain of heartbreak, betrayal, and public scrutiny and transformed it into some of the most successful and meaningful music of our time. In “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart,” she sings, “I cry a lot, but I’m so productive, it’s an art.” We love to watch her channel emotional turmoil into her creative process. Rather than letting pain paralyze her, Taylor uses it as fuel to create—and, in doing so, she produces work that resonates deeply with others.
This ability to sublimate emotional distress into art is a gift to her listeners. Through her vulnerability, Taylor allows us to witness her emotional journey and gives us permission to process our own pain in similar ways. Fans often find solace and catharsis in her music, not just because of the catchy melodies, but because they see their own emotional experiences reflected back at them in her lyrics.
Beyond Taylor’s music, the Swiftie community exemplifies these emotionally mature coping strategies in action. Fans find strength in connection, assert their identities as a supportive and inclusive group, and use their collective energy to create positive spaces for emotional expression.