Paper airplanes. Hundreds of them. In every room, every bag, every car cup holder.

If there is a surface in our home that isn’t already covered with them—give it five minutes.

But here’s the thing: When my son is folding those airplanes, I see something in him shift. His focus sharpens. His hands, steady. He becomes calm, grounded, regulated. He’s “in the zone.”

He’s learning through doing—through building—through motion.

And yet, as parents, even when we love our children’s interests, we can find ourselves frustrated by the timing of them.

Like… bedtime. Or minutes before school drop-off. Or any moment when we’re already overwhelmed and running behind.

So, one morning, seeing yet another paper airplane peeking out of his backpack, I made a comment to his teacher that came straight from that old conditioning—the place in me that fears judgement, the place that sees me as a good parent:

“Feel free to take the airplane away if it’s distracting him…”

But her response stopped me in my tracks. She smiled through her bold, chunky glasses and said, “Oh, his airplanes are great! I let him and the other kids test them out in our dedicated ‘classroom neighbourhood,’ next to our room. And if he’s okay with it, I’d like him to teach a lesson in our STEM class sometime this year.”

For once, I was at a loss for words.

She sees him.

She sees his strength.

She doesn’t see the distraction.

She sees a child learning in the way his brain naturally learns.

And in that moment, she also gave me permission to honour my natural inclination to follow his lead. To believe that his way of learning is valid. To stop trying to fit him into a mould that was never made for him.

A few months later, life moved us across the country as we became the primary caregivers for his ailing grandpa. The paper airplanes multiplied and soon became a source of connection. We continued school remotely, and true to her word, his teacher made that STEM lesson happen—via Zoom.

There he was—my son—confidently teaching his entire class of six- and seven-year-olds how to fold paper airplanes, explaining the logic of wing shape and launch force.

Leading.

Confident.

His tiny hands and raspy voice moving in harmony as his classmates enthusiastically let him take the lead.

Learning didn’t stop because our life changed.

It simply found a new shape. One uncannily similar to that of a glider delta wing.

And yes—part of his teacher’s Christmas gift from our family included a replacement ream of printer paper. Because when a teacher chooses to celebrate the spark in a child—when they take what could easily be dismissed as disruptive or “too much” and instead transform it into confidence, community, and belonging—they’re going to need a much bigger paper budget.

His paper airplane obsession was a doorway, not a distraction.

For another child, it might be rearranging the same LEGO structure 20 different ways.

For another, it’s taking apart toys to understand how they work, or climbing everything in sight to test balance and courage or losing themselves in water play. (Lucky for my already overwhelmed brain and my aching LEGO-induced feet trauma, my kiddo dabbles in all the above).

These interests can look messy, loud, inconvenient. But they are also windows into how our children process the world.

This is education.

Hands-on exploration develops resilience, imagination, patience, innovation and confidence.

Learning is not only what happens at a desk. Learning is a child discovering who they are.

And sometimes, all we need to do is step back and say: “Show me how your mind works. I’m here. I’ll follow your lead.

When we follow their curiosity instead of resisting it, that’s where the magic of connection happens.

Supporting Your Child’s Strengths (Without Losing Your Mind)

1. Name the Strength Beneath the Behaviour. Instead of “They won’t stop fidgeting.” Try: “Their body needs movement to learn.” This takes away the need to constantly correct.

2. Build a “Yes Space” for Their Interest. A bin of scrap paper, a LEGO corner, a designated water play towel and bucket that lives close to a sink (this has been a gamechanger for us!), a small basket of child-friendly tools and fixable items. Give their passion a home.

3. Collaborate with Their Teachers and Care Team. Share what lights them up and ask how it can be woven into learning time. When home and school reflect a child back to themselves with acceptance, confidence grows.

Back in my day, there was no streaming library of shows, no pocket-sized screens with endless dopamine hits, no immediate gratification at the press of a button. If we were bored, we were bored. And eventually, something came of it: forts made of bedsheets, stories scribbled in old notebooks, role play with stuffies and old phone books, all orchestrated with nothing but a homemade costume and a little imagination.

Fast-forward to 2025, and boredom feels almost impossible. Our kids are wired for constant stimulation, and we as parents often feel pressure to provide it. But what if boredom isn’t a problem to be solved, but a gift we’ve forgotten how to give?

Why It Matters (for Them and for Us)

Imagination is like a muscle. And like any muscle, it needs practice, stretching and exposure to grow strong. When kids sit in the uncomfortable silence of boredom, they’re flexing that muscle. With time, it gets easier for them to create their own fun, stories and worlds.

And here’s the kicker: it matters for us too. A dear friend and former homeschooler mom shared with me that for years, she felt it was her job to manage every moment of her kids’ day, until she made the conscious decision to stop. Now her kids are thriving, and she feels free—even with a full-time job, and plenty of juggling. That hit home. I used to think that managing my kids’ every move—filling every gap with activities, crafts and ideas—made me a “better” mom. But really, it just exhausted me. Maybe the ideal isn’t constant management. Maybe the gift is stepping back.

The Gift of Wonder

Here’s the magic: once boredom is welcomed, wonder sneaks in. Kids start to see the extraordinary in the ordinary—cloud animals drifting by, a cardboard box turned boat, bugs on the sidewalk holding a protest.

Wonder is a gift we could use too. When we’re not scrambling to entertain or micromanage, we start to notice things again: the way light hits our favourite spot on the couch, a book ready to be picked up, the joy of a phone-free walk (gasp!).

What Boredom Builds (in My House)

In my own home, boredom has led to:

• Creativity: Paper airplanes; elaborate drawings; kid-sized market booths where parents get to shop, and enjoy a guilt-free plate of decadent desserts made of pom poms, while paying an absurd amount of fake (well-spent) money.

• Collaboration: Siblings working together on forts, projects and role play (and yes, sometimes squabbling, it’s an inevitable part of the process).

• Life Skills and Connection: Inviting us into their play while practicing autonomy and leadership.

• Problem-Solving: “How do I re-shape this airplane so it has more speed?” “Why does this angle look off in my drawing?”

• Resilience: When things flop, they try again—without me stepping in to rescue them.

The shift has been striking. Instead of, “What are we doing now?” or “When can I get screen time?” I’ve started hearing, “Just a sec, Mom—we’re working on a project!”

These aren’t just cute byproducts. They’re essential life skills. Kids who learn to tolerate boredom are better equipped to face challenges later in life, whether it’s handling frustration, waiting their turn or solving real-world problems.

A Parent’s Quiet Win

Letting our kids be bored is one of the best gifts we can give ourselves. By stepping out of the role of cruise director and constant dopamine supplier, we reclaim time, energy and little slices of joy that used to get lost in the shuffle. We don’t have to be their endless entertainment. We get to watch them grow into it on their own.

Boredom Is Not the Enemy

Boredom is an open door. For them and for us. So, the next time your kids groan, “I’m bored,” or complain (because they will), remember this: No, you don’t have to fix it, and no, you are not failing them. You’re modelling what it looks like to slow down, look up (phone down) and rediscover the wonder around you. We can stop overthinking, let go of control and remember that our nervous system deserves rest just as much as our kids’ imagination deserves freedom.

So, here’s my invitation: Let them be bored. Let yourself be bored. You both might just find the gift you didn’t know you needed.

3 Quick Ways to Embrace Boredom This Week

1. Set the Stage: Offer open-ended tools (paper, blocks, boxes) and step back.

2. Pause for the Cause: When the whining hits, pause before reacting. You are building your patience muscle too.

3. Notice the Wonder: Point out clouds, shadows, shapes—little details that can spark their imagination.

Homeschool was not part of the plan. In fact, I loved my daughter’s school—its vibrant staff, inclusive values and strong community gave me comfort, especially as a parent raising a child with diverse needs.

But by Grade 2, gentle mornings and play-based learning gave way to measurable outcomes. Recesses would be spent alone, while cliques formed and rules of the playground shifted. It was heartbreaking to watch. By Grade 3, the pressures of keeping up academically and socially started to chip away at her mental health.

Meltdowns and shutdowns became daily struggles. That distant, glazed look returned—along with subtle eye twitches we later learned were absence seizures quietly disrupting her learning. Reading and basic math felt heavier each day. Getting out the door became an emotional marathon.

We were overcome by frustration and defeat, desperate to help her but unsure how. The tension changed the dynamic of our family and impacted our confidence as parents.

The real eye-opener came with the pandemic. When classrooms closed, we all felt an immediate sense of relief. And as much as I valued her school, we knew it was no longer the right fit for her or our family.

So, when schools reopened, we made the pivot.

Instead of asking, “Will she ever finish this?” I started asking, “What does she need from me?” I listened closely, studied her cues and quietly accepted that homeschooling might soon become our new normal.

That shift, from compliance to connection, became our family’s wellness turning point.

Wellness Over Worksheets

Homeschooling wasn’t the plan—it was the lifeline we never knew we needed. At first, I worried: “Would she fall behind? Could I even do this?”

But deep down, I knew we couldn’t focus on academics until we prioritized her well-being.

So, I stopped doubling down on curriculum and leaned into emotional co-regulation, confidence-building and creating a space where she felt safe to be herself.

Fewer worksheets. More connection. Less grading. More grace.

Flexibility, Not Force

Homeschool allowed us to work with her natural rhythms.

If she needed a slow morning, we honoured it. If math called for baking banana bread, we pulled out the mixing bowls, put on our matching chef hats—and recorded the whole debacle for reporting purposes. Writing initiated by voice notes? Sure! Problem-solving with headphones? Absolutely.

Movement breaks, sensory tools and emotional check-ins became part of the plan. She began to thrive. And that mattered more than any textbook.

Unlearning My Role

I thought I needed to be her teacher. What she really needed… was her mom.

I let go of perfectionism, urgency and unrealistic expectations. I made peace with good enough, forgave myself for the chaotic days and modelled for her: mistakes are okay, rest is productive and safety always comes before success.

This wasn’t just her growth—it was mine, too.

Lowering Demands

One of the biggest surprises? How much joy surfaced when we simply lowered demands.

Without school timelines, we made room for mid-morning beach talks, reading Manga-style Anne of Green Gables under shared blankets, homemade sushi, fashion design and Taiso exercises woven into a Japan unit study.

We laughed more. We cried less. Learning began to feel like living again.

Mental Health Wins (for us, both)

As power struggles faded, my daughter slowly came back to life. She spoke with more confidence, expressed herself freely and moved through mornings with less resistance. I got my quirky, imaginative girl back.

And I began to feel like myself again. With a formal diagnosis and a support team in place, I could finally delegate parts of her learning. This made space for me to care for my aging parents—and return to the studio. She even joined me, eventually volunteering for the podcast.

In choosing a new way to educate her, I found a new way to reclaim myself.

Repair Over Routine

Prioritizing relationships over routine wasn’t easy—but essential.

Our home became a place of repair, not reaction. We rebuilt trust, redefined success and reshaped what learning looked like—not just for our daughter, but for our whole family, including her younger brother who continues to thrive in public school.

Coming Full Circle

Now, after a few transformative years, my daughter is returning to brick-and-mortar high school—with accommodations and supports in place.

Homeschooling gave her the space to feel safe in her own skin—and gave me the clarity to stop chasing my version of learning that never truly fit. Once we let go of what learning was supposed to look like, we made space for her to grow… in her own time, in her own way. That’s when healing began—for both of us.

Because when we lead with connection, learning has a chance to follow.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve believed in the transformative power of travel. In my younger, itinerary-free days of backpacking and wander-lusting, I chased experiences and collected stories. But I never imagined one of the most meaningful journeys I’d ever take would begin not with a passport stamp, but with a frantic call, a heavy heart and a two-day scramble to leave Vancouver Island.

When a family emergency pulled us across the country with little notice, logic (and today’s economy) told us to send just one person: my husband. Flights off the island are notoriously expensive, especially last minute. But something deeper made us pause. My father-in-law needed us. And while the details of his declining health are too tender to share, we knew this trip was about more than just being there. It was about our children immersing in the everyday moments with their grandfather—staring contests, magic tricks, knock-knock jokes, a sweet prayer of gratitude. It was about holding onto their special connection while the chance was still there.

What followed was a 48-hour whirlwind of canceled appointments, arranging care for my own elderly parents and coordinating homeschool and therapies. It meant missing my son’s spring concert, clearing out the fridge, setting up plant watering and transferring files to work remotely—with no return date in sight. It was costly, chaotic and it was absolutely the right thing to do.

What we didn’t expect was how this unplanned journey—laced with grief and uncertainty—would become a chance to reconnect as a family. Amidst the emotional weight, we found something surprisingly grounding. A reminder that even in crisis, travel can bring us closer.

We chose to see the journey to our destination as an adventure. Especially since the destination—a hospital room—would be as heavy as one would expect. That shift in mindset made all the difference, even for my husband, whose heart was especially burdened.

We made choices that helped ease the process. Travelling light (a miracle for us!) made a difference. Rather than packing for every “what if,” we chose only the essentials. We walked onto the ferry instead of driving, then used rideshares to reach the airport. After an awkward standoff between a taxi and a standby Uber (a definite no-no, apparently), we were finally enroute—booster seat in tow.

The biggest shock of all? We were six hours early for our flight. We are not early people. But those quiet hours before takeoff felt like a gift. In a life filled with caregiving and appointments, the absence of rushing was profoundly calming.

We chose a red-eye flight, and I won’t pretend it was easy. But the kids managed to find a few fetal-like positions that got them four solid hours of rest. There was even a minor monorail mishap (one too many loops before realizing we were heading the wrong way), but that only added to the memories—and the “I told you so’s.”

After landing, we found ourselves in the city where my husband and I began our life together. Showing our kids the skyline that shaped our younger years felt like a full-circle moment. Their little faces pressed against the window, watching the web of highways, will stay with me forever.

Eventually, we boarded the VIA Rail for the final stretch of our 25-hour journey: a train ride through the countryside. We sat face-to-face at a table—playing games, sharing snacks and actually talking. We laughed. We napped. The kids argued, then made up. Real connection—the kind that gets buried in the daily grind—rose to the surface.

This wasn’t a vacation. It was a mission. Fueled by urgency, love and sacrifice, sprinkled with worry. But our kids didn’t just survive it. They found wonder in it. They were resilient. And through the discomfort, exhaustion and unpredictability, they grew. They learned to pivot.

For those of us in the sandwich generation, the weight of caregiving on both ends can feel relentless. There’s often guilt in choosing one side over the other. But sometimes, there’s a way to blend both—to bring generations together, to model presence and compassion even in chaos.

And yes, we leaned hard on our village back home to pick up the pieces we left behind (there were plenty). But this journey reminded us that not all adventures are about escape. Some are about arrival—arriving in the hard moments, fully present. And in doing so, we discover that even the heaviest of journeys can carry moments of light.