For years I’ve been writing and reflecting on intergenerational living, what it means to create spaces where adults can rest without leaving their families behind. Growing up in Salzburg, I lived in an environment where grandparents, cousins, and neighbors across ages were woven into daily life.

Later, as a single mom, I longed for that same sense of support and belonging. One memory remains vivid.

This week we arrive at the Fall Equinox, the moment of balance when day and night share the sky equally. After this threshold, the nights will slowly stretch longer than the days. Across cultures, the Equinox has long been honored as a time of harvest, gratitude, and release.

Nature moves into this shift without hesitation. Trees loosen their hold on leaves. Animals gather and prepare for rest. The air grows sharper, carrying both urgency and surrender.

September always carries a certain rhythm. Even long after our own school days are behind us, the return of yellow buses, sharpened pencils, and cooler mornings triggers something in us. There’s a shift, a reminder that we are entering a season of learning, growth, and new structure.

But while kids head back into classrooms, it’s easy for adults to lose sight of their own learning journeys. We become the chauffeurs, the cheerleaders, the ones holding the schedules together. In all the busyness, we forget that we, too, are lifelong learners.

Last week, I shared about growing up in a small Austrian village. There were four houses, ten cousins, and the messy beauty of belonging to something bigger than myself. There were toddlers and teens, grannies and gruff uncles. Life happened all at once, in all its stages.

That early exposure to different ages, personalities, and ways of being shaped me. It taught me to listen sideways, not just upward or inward. To take advice from someone younger, to watch someone older grieve without words. It gave me a kind of emotional fluency that no classroom ever taught.

I grew up in Austria, in a little family village - four houses, all relatives. We shared gardens, meals, and the woods behind our houses. Ten or more cousins roamed freely from backyard to forest, inventing games, pushing boundaries, and learning from one another.

It wasn’t perfect. There were pecking orders, unsupervised mischief, and moments of painful exclusion. But what stayed with me was the belonging, knowing I was part of something larger than myself.

For many of us, the idea of safety has always been something out there, found in another person, a quiet place, or a fleeting sense of calm. If you didn’t grow up with a consistent sense of being emotionally held, it can be hard to imagine that this safety could live inside you. But it can.

What if you could become your own secure base?

Grief touches every single one of us at some point. It doesn’t follow a calendar or a clock. It has no tidy stages and no finish line.

This truth came up deeply for me recently when a dear friend shared how the loss of her father struck her again with full force, even nine years later. And the heartbreaking tragedy at Camp Mystic in Texas, losing young lives so suddenly and painfully, has left so many of us stunned and aching.

In our modern world, the word “rest” is often equated with sleep, a quick nap, or maybe taking a weekend off. But if you’ve ever found yourself feeling deeply exhausted even after a full night’s sleep, you’re not alone. There’s a different kind of rest most of us are missing. It goes beyond the body and touches the deepest parts of us. This is what I call soul rest.

When people talk about trailblazers in education, few names resonate as powerfully as Dr. Maria Montessori. A physician, educator, and visionary thinker, Montessori transformed how we understand learning, independence, and human development. Born in Italy in 1870, she was one of the first women physicians in Europe, and she used her scientific training to observe how children best absorb and engage with the world. Her work laid the foundation for what is now a global movement.

There’s a quiet kind of magic that happens when we allow ourselves to look forward to something. Not in the distracted, can’t-wait-for-this-meeting-to-end kind of way, but in a deeper, soul-nourishing, heart-expanding way.

This is anticipatory joy; the kind of joy that begins before the thing even arrives. And science is finally catching up to what we’ve always felt: the looking forward is part of the healing.

Lately, I’ve found myself a little out of rhythm.

Even with all the tools I teach and the grounding practices I rely on, I noticed that old familiar voice creeping back in, the one that whispers “You’re not doing enough” or “You’re falling behind.” It took me a moment to recognize it for what it was: imposter syndrome.

In my last blog, I mentioned my Virtual Assistant (VA) a lot, “My VA and I did this…” “My VA created that…” And it made me pause. Because behind the scenes of Consider Yourself Credentialed is someone who rarely gets the spotlight, but truly deserves it. This week’s blog is dedicated to her. Becca Keene is the reason you see beautifully formatted newsletters in your inbox each week.

In my last blog, I shared why vision boards aren’t just for New Year’s resolutions. They’re invitations, at any time of the year, to pause, re-center, and ask what really matters now. But I also know what month it is: May. For so many, May is one of the busiest stretches of the year.

In my last blog, I shared why vision boards aren’t just for New Year’s resolutions. They’re invitations, at any time of the year, to pause, re-center, and ask what really matters now. But I also know what month it is: May. For so many, May is one of the busiest stretches of the year.

At the beginning of this year, I was invited to guide a vision board session for our local Humane Society team. It was such an honor, and honestly, deeply moving. These are people working in one of the most emotionally intense environments, caring for animals and navigating heartbreak on a daily basis. Their work is sacred and often unseen.

For decades, I held space for others. As a psychologist, educator, and helper, I was trained to be steady - to show up, to contain, to care. I loved the work. I still do. But somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing how much of myself I was pouring out and how little I was pouring back in.

What does it mean to live with intention?

Not the hustle version - where every hour is optimized and every goal is chased. No. I’m talking about the kind of intentional living that feels like coming home to yourself.

If you’ve stumbled in here, chances are you’re carrying a lot. Maybe quietly, maybe with a smile that hides the wear and tear. I see you.

That’s right. Composting. You know how the forest takes what’s dead, fallen, and discarded and turns it into rich, fertile soil? That’s what we’re doing here. Gathering up the old stories, the burnout, the tiny (and big) heartbreaks, and turning them into something alive and beautiful.