As a child, I loved the wonder of Willy Wonka’s world. As an adult, reading it again, I recognize it’s also one of the greatest behavioral finance stories of all time. The chocolate factory isn’t just whimsical fantasy. It’s a case study in human behavior. Each golden ticket winner offers a lesson and crystalizes a relatable but problematic trap:

• Augustus Gloop: Unchecked consumption and greed.

• Veruca Salt: Entitlement and the lure of immediacy

• Violet Beauregarde: The danger of not knowing when to stop.

• Mike Teavee: Distraction and disconnection.

And then there’s Charlie. Sweet-as-chocolate Charlie. A boy who has nothing but manages to carry himself with humility, gratitude, and restraint. He isn’t perfect (he did partake in the fizzy lifting drinks after all). Still, he shows us that character can outweigh circumstance.

Behavioral finance asks: Why do we make the choices we do? How do we respond to scarcity, temptation, competition, and abundance? Roald Dahl may not have had Kahneman and Tversky on his bookshelf, but he understood something about human nature. Today I can see that the factory was never really about chocolate. It was about character and the ways we reveal ourselves when faced with desire and opportunity.

When I close the book at night, my kids just want to know what happens to the Oompa-Loompas or the Everlasting Gobstopper. That’s how it should be. But after they’re kissed and tucked in I’ve found myself marveling at the fact that a children’s story I adored is also a timeless parable about money, self-control, and the choices that shape a life.

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Was that realistic? Fair? Wise? Necessary?

No.

So, we pivoted. One subject a day. We move the needle forward, they still learn something, and nobody ends the day defeated. The bar didn’t disappear. I just moved it somewhere they could actually clear it. Then, we went to the pool.

My life has been filled with Great Expectations—those others have held for me and the internal standards I’ve created for myself. I demand excellence and expect others to do the same. In many ways, I’m grateful for this wiring. The bar has always been high, so I’ve always reached. It’s shaped who I am and what I’ve built. I wouldn’t be where I am without it. Still, I’ve had to learn, slowly and sometimes the hard way, that lofty expectations aren’t always the best thing.

In parenting, I often try to gauge what is developmentally appropriate. Children are not miniature adults. Am I asking our kids to do something they’re actually capable of doing, given where they are right now? A tapped-out four-year-old who can’t regulate strong emotion is not being defiant. A sun-tired, swim-practiced, camp-worn kid is not going to absorb long division. The mismatch is the problem, not the child. I have to regularly check in with myself and ask whether I, as the adult in charge, am actually setting us up for success.

The question of what’s reasonable isn’t only true of children. It’s worth asking across every relationship, every season, every version of ourselves: Is what I’m expecting here actually fair? Adjusting an expectation is not the same as settling or lowering your standards. Sometimes it’s the most honest accounting of what’s actually in front of you.

There’s a formula I return to often: happiness equals reality minus expectations. Joy isn’t just about what happens to us. It’s the gap between what we hoped for and what is. Sometimes it behooves us to level-set before we step into an experience to spare us heartache and disappointment on the other side.

As a psychologist, I operate in dialectics. One of the most powerful is acceptance and change. When a patient sits across from me, I meet them exactly where they are, as they are. At the same time, I reject the notion that their present state of existing in the world is as good as it gets. I always hold the aspirational view, even when someone can’t see it for themselves (yet). The work of humanity is being and becoming. The person in front of me is not a finished product, and neither am I. These two things have to coexist. Acceptance without hope becomes resignation. Aspiration without acceptance becomes pressure that crushes rather than propels.

Which brings me back to the redeeming concept that has transformed my life: grace. Grace is what lives in the space between the standard and the struggle. It doesn’t give a free pass and say, “What you did doesn’t matter,” or “Anything goes.” Instead, grace extends from a place of investment, belief, and love. “I see what you’re carrying, and what you’re capable of.” “You are worthy no matter what. It’s okay to mess up as you work to find your footing.” I am working to lavish it more freely... to myself and the people I love.

The goal isn’t perfection. It’s growth. How do we get there? Standards of excellence that we can actually live inside of. Not too high. Not too low. Calibrated to what’s real, what’s possible, and what leaves room for a person to be human while they work toward something better. That’s the Goldilocks version of expectation. In my experience, it’s the one that actually works.

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For me, Memorial Day is sobering. It stirs a peculiar emotional amalgam of gratitude, sadness, survivor’s guilt, and resolve. The last Monday in May doesn’t make me think of sticky summer heat or sales on shorts and flip-flops. It brings back a bone-chilling cold January day that rocked my world in the hardest, deepest way. On January 8, 2014, I stood at the Air Force Academy Cemetery and witnessed a young woman live one of my worst nightmares. Through tears, she watched her husband’s flag-draped coffin disappear into the ground.

My freezing feet went numb as I listened to the 21-gun salute. Smoke hung in the air.

Ready, aim, fire

Ready, aim, fire.

Ready, aim, fire.

The bugler stepped out and played Taps. If sorrow was a song, it would sound like this. My attention snapped back to the flag. The honor guard folded it over Dave’s body. First in halves, then in quarters. They turned the red, white, and blue rectangle into a triangle. It shrunk and tightened. Then, it was placed in Dana’s hands. And then I listened to the words no military spouse ever wants to hear:

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for David’s honorable and faithful service.”

Captain David Lyon died on December 27, 2013, when enemy forces attacked his convoy in Afghanistan. Dave and my husband Philip had spent their tour that year performing a Combat Advisory mission with Afghan National Army Commandos. They loved the work. They volunteered to be there. My husband served as Dave’s military escort out of the theater and accompanied his body back to Dover. For one last time, they were side-by-side in the belly of a C-17.

Every time Philip deployed, I knew he’d come home—I just could never be certain whether he’d walk off the plane or be carried in a box. Goodbyes were intense. When I watched his uniform disappear, I knew it might be the last time I saw him alive.

Dave’s death changed my husband. It marked us. That cold day in January is why we stay. It’s the epitome of why we serve. Dave’s legacy is our Memorial. Every day.

I’ve been married to the military for eighteen sweet and bitter years. It’s been a trip. Mostly, it’s amazing. Hard. But good in so many ways. It’s crystallized the power of living for and giving to something bigger than yourself. It’s service, yes. Plenty of sacrifice for sure. But our family has gotten so much back from being part of the Air Force. It’s widened our aperture, altered our perspective, and anchored us to a deep purpose.

Why did Dana Lyon bury her husband and their unlived dreams instead of me burying mine? The question will always haunt me. They sacrificed. We survived. I can’t explain the tragedy. But the horrific, unchosen circumstances we lived in that dark winter clarified my priorities. They refined my decision-making with razor-sharp precision. In the wake of Dave’s death, I live with more focus. I feel a greater sense of urgency.

I’ve done nothing to “earn” the privileges or opportunities afforded to me. As I live in the “after” of Dave’s death, I’m painfully aware that I need to make every chance I get count. My freedom, my choices—they were bought with blood. I remind myself of this when I feel my husband’s embrace or hear the music of my children’s voices. These are simple, everyday things, but I know the only moments I’m guaranteed are immediately in front of me. None of us knows how much time we have, so we must make our days matter. We don’t get to decide when our business is finished. Having intention, impact, and purpose is how we lead lives worthy of sacrifices made on our behalf.

This Memorial Day, take less for granted. Do things that matter with people you care about. Cultivate purpose. You’re part of something much bigger than you—connect to it and contribute. Use what you have to do all you can for as many people as possible. Leave a mark. Living well is how we honor those who are no longer with us.

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As a mom, that truth—the power I hold—sometimes terrifies me.

My children are first learning to see themselves as they are mirrored by me. My voice will become their internal self-talk. They learn experientially in our home what love looks, sounds, and feels like. As a parent, I think carefully about the “normal” I’m creating. Our “status quo” is what my children will continue to seek and likely go on to repeat in later relationships. As humans, we gravitate to what is known and are pulled to the familiar (even when it’s not best for us).

My identity as a mother was conceived the day I found out I was carrying three heartbeats. The day my twins were born, a new part of me was born too. For seven short and long years, I’ve been stumbling, learning, growing—trying to figure out how to parent. My children are my teachers. And this is the most joyous, harrowing, heart-wrenching, and miraculous journey I’ve ever known. Without question, being a mom is the hardest and best thing I’ve ever done.

The most honest Mother’s Day card for me would say: World’s Most Imperfect Mom. Motherhood, like marriage, has a way of reflecting back the less-than-stellar parts of myself—flaws I have to face, understand, and work to change. That doesn’t make me a bad parent. It makes me human.

My foray into motherhood was far from perfect. The start to the mother-child bond I share with my babies was the stuff of nightmares, not dreams. But, that’s life. In the end, it’s not about what happens to us—it’s about what we do with it. I get eighteen years with my children under my roof. 6570 days, many of which have already slipped through my fingers. I do my best to bring intention to the moments I’ve been given. Each one is an opportunity. To love or hurt (and always to teach).

In every relationship—professional and personal—I make mistakes. Regularly. I’ve come to see this not as a personal failure, but as an inevitable part of being in connection with others. In psychology, we call these moments “ruptures.” What matters most is not that I always get it right. What matters is what I do when I don’t. Because I can’t always get it right.

Trust isn’t built through perfection—it’s deepened through repair. When I fall short, I want my children to see me take responsibility with humility. I want them to hear the tone I use with myself: compassionate, not critical. I apologize. Then, I try to do better. I want them to know that healing takes more than words; it takes changed behavior. We love through action.

Graduate school gave me a foundation in human development, neuroscience, behavior, and emotion. I draw on that knowledge daily in the trenches of parenting. Understanding what’s happening in my children’s brains—and remembering that they’re not miniature adults—helps me meet them with more empathy. That same knowledge sometimes helps me meet myself with more grace, too.

One of the most powerful concepts I return to—both as a clinician and as a mother—is the “good enough mother.” Coined by British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott, this idea recognizes that no parent can be perfect—and that’s not just okay, it’s necessary. Flawed caregiving, when paired with love and repair, fosters healthy development. Children grow through challenge, not coddling.

As a new therapist, Winnicott’s work helped me realize that I didn’t need to be attuned 100% of the time to help someone heal. I didn’t need to always say the “right” thing. My presence was more important than my performance. Often, my stumbles created space for richer connection. They were opportunities for clients to practice navigating conflict and having hard conversations. When we worked through what went wrong together, our therapeutic relationship grew stronger. That lesson echoes in my home.

I aim to be a “good enough” psychologist—and a “good enough” mom.

A “good enough” parent provides a safe, loving environment while allowing space for frustration and disappointment. They don’t smooth every bump or shield their child from every hurt. They let life happen, while staying close. “Good enough” isn’t an excuse for disengagement or neglect. It’s an intentional, present, responsible way of loving, with full awareness that we will still mess up. “Good enough” parents show up in their imperfection, trusting that their children can thrive not in spite of that, but through it. That’s where resilience is built.

There is a weight to the yoke of motherhood unlike anything else I’ve known. As a clinician, I know what it is to carry life-and-death responsibility. Sometimes the primary purpose of my directives and decisions is to keep people alive. I’ve spent many an hour sitting in an ER with suicidal and homicidal patients and their families. It’s heavy. But the duty I hold as a parent? It’s everything.

Patients often ask me, “Am I messing up my kids?” At times, I share this same fear as a parent. In those moments I remind myself of the reassurance I give others: The people whose relationships have a severely damaging impact on their child’s psyche usually aren’t concerned with this question. I’ll keep doing my best and let that be enough. After all, this is what I am trying to teach my kids. They will internalize how I treat them, but they will internalize how I treat myself too.

One day, I hope each of my children finds an excellent therapist. (Everyone should have one.) In their therapy, I have no doubt my kids will talk about their mom. Periodically, I think about what I hope they’ll be able to say about me, their childhood, and our family. I’m spurred to live and love them accordingly.

Motherhood is a forever job. As my children grow, they won’t need me less—they’ll need me differently. Until my last breath, I’ll be their mother. And until then, I’ll keep showing up in all my blazing humanity. Like my clients, and everyone else in my life, my kids don’t need perfection. They need presence.

And I trust, in the deepest place I know, that what will ultimately shape and sustain them is the same thing that’s transformed me: radical, extravagant grace.

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Why, indeed.

I’ve been thinking about apologies a lot lately. They come up in my clinical work, with my kids, and, with surprising regularity, in conversations with my friends. The reminder I keep coming back to is simple: an apology is warranted when we’ve actually done something wrong. We hurt someone. We damaged something. We fell short of who we want to be. When we mess up, our words need to mean something. The only way they can is when we reserve apologies for the moments that call for them.

When my kids are in the wrong, I want them to own it. I coach them to speak words of contrition with sincerity and then, importantly, do something different going forward. An apology that costs nothing, that fires off automatically like a reflex, is empty. When I hear one of my kids offer a “sorry” in a situation that has no business being there, I pose the same question every time: Did you actually do something wrong? This query scaffolds self-reflective space. It’s the beginning of teaching them to take responsibility driven by intention rather than anxiety, all the while holding grace and compassion for their own fallible humanity.

Learning about accurate apologies is a lesson that often doesn’t get fully learned in childhood. I give the same nudge to adults on a remarkably frequent basis in my professional and personal life.

In psychology, we’d call reflexive apologizing a fawn response, a conflict-appeasement behavior rooted in anxiety and, in some cases, trauma. While this interactive pattern acts as a protective mechanism during abuse or danger, long-term, it can wreak havoc on our identity, cause emotional exhaustion, and interfere with our ability to establish healthy, balanced relationships. It communicates, at its core: I am preemptively taking up less space so you hopefully won’t be upset with me. The unspoken hope is: If I take myself down a notch, you can’t do it first. For some people, automatic apologizing is so deeply wired that they don’t even notice it happening. “Sorry” slips out before the brain has had a chance to evaluate whether it actually applies.

For many people, “sorry” is a social habit. A filler word. An awkward-silence patch. A verbal tic picked up somewhere along the way. “Sorry, can I ask a quick question?” “Sorry, this might be a silly idea, but...” “Sorry, I don’t totally understand.” The apology precedes existing. It comes before taking up the floor, sharing a thought, or making an admission.

What is that doing for us? Nothing good.

There’s a particular version of this pattern that is unsettling to me as I think about the relational templates we create. It’s the apology that arrives in response to someone else’s strong emotions. Someone is angry. Disappointed. They raise their voice or shut down or make the air in the room feel heavy. Before anyone has even assessed what happened or who, if anyone, is actually responsible, the apology comes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

This is not accountability. This is a pressure release valve. It’s a way of making the discomfort stop (albeit temporarily). On the surface, it can masquerade as emotional maturity. It might seem like someone is quick to take responsibility. But look closer…the critical question “Did I actually do something wrong?” was never asked. The apology wasn’t the conclusion of any reflection. It was a reaction to someone else’s emotional temperature.

The problem with this pattern is what it teaches us about our own culpability. If we apologize every time someone near us is upset, we begin to internalize a dangerous equation: their pain is my fault. That’s not true. Not even close. Building relationships on that foundation creates a very particular kind of exhaustion, one in which you are perpetually managing others’ emotional states at the expense of your own sanity, peace, and sense of reality. You can hold space for someone’s feelings without accepting blame for them. You can say I can see you’re really upset without saying and therefore I must have done something wrong.

A cost to chronic unnecessary apologies is that they dilute our real ones. Repair is one of the most important, potent relationship skills we have. The apologies that should land get lost in the noise of the ones that didn’t mean anything if we are flippantly saying “I’m sorry” all of the time.

Reflexive apologies also communicate something about your own sense of worth. They broadcast self-doubt. People hear it. Then, they begin to relate to you through that lens.

Knee-jerk apologies are emotionally dishonest. If you did nothing wrong, apologizing implies that you did. You are accepting guilt that isn’t yours to carry. Guilt goes off the rails when the feeling doesn’t fit the situation.

When we apologize for everything, we’re accountable for nothing. If you did something that you need to make right, say so. Speak clearly, with humility. Don’t qualify it to death, and mean it. When you courageously take accurate ownership, it’s a beautiful, relationship-building, character-revealing act. Do it often and do it well.

But if you didn’t err? Pause before the reflex fires. Ask yourself whether you actually did something wrong that requires corrective action. If the answer is no, find another word. “Excuse me” instead of “sorry” when you’re navigating around someone. “I appreciate your patience” instead of “sorry for the wait.” Silence and maybe some curiosity instead of a filler apology when someone near you is upset and you’re reaching for the fastest way to make it stop.

My friend laughed when I called her out on the phone. Why did I say that?

Most of us were taught, somewhere along the way, that keeping the peace mattered more than accurate self-representation. “Sorry” can feel like social glue. It smooths things over and softens edges. While those are not bad instincts, there are better ways to show warmth that don’t require you to offer up a small piece of your dignity.

You do not owe the world an apology for existing in it.

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Most people say they want feedback. What they usually mean is: “Tell me I’m doing a good job.” But meaningful feedback—the kind that reveals blind spots, challenges assumptions, or pushes us to do better—rarely feels good in the moment. Usually, it stings. And if we’re not paying attention, we reject the message before we’ve even understood it.

In the corporate world, there’s a constant drumbeat about how to give good feedback—be specific, timely, actionable, constructive. What we don’t talk about enough is how to receive feedback without shutting down, getting defensive, or quietly spiraling.

Unfortunately, we’re wired to interpret feedback as a threat, especially when it’s unexpected or hits uncomfortably close to home. But if you’re serious about growth, developing the skill of receiving feedback is crucial.

Start by Knowing What You’re Dealing With

All feedback is not created equal. Categorizing it helps you make sense of what you’re hearing—which can inform how to best respond.

There are three primary types of feedback:

• Appreciation – “I see you.” This is about acknowledgment, gratitude, and emotional fuel.

• Coaching – “Here’s how you might improve.” This aims to help you grow, tweak, or stretch your performance.

• Evaluation – “Here’s where you stand.” It tells you how you measure up against expectations, goals, or peers.

Confusing one type for another is where problems start. You might interpret coaching as criticism. Or expect appreciation but get evaluation instead. Naming the type can help you engage with the feedback more cleanly.

Disentangle the ‘What’ from the ‘Who’ and the ‘How’

One of the fastest ways feedback gets derailed is when we fixate on who delivered it—or how—instead of what was actually said.

Was the delivery a little sharp? Maybe.
Was it your boss, a micromanager who kind of annoys you? Possibly.
Did they get the tone wrong or catch you off guard? Sure.

But even if the how or who feels off, it doesn’t mean the what isn’t worth considering.

You don’t have to like the messenger. You don’t have to love the packaging. The question is: Is there something here I can use? You are the one who stands to lose if you don’t dig deep, swallow your pride, and summon the courage to ask this question.

A Framework for Receiving Feedback Gracefully

Here’s a simple, flexible framework for staying grounded when feedback comes your way. Having a process helps you move from reactivity to reflection—and eventually to action.

1. Make Space

When someone gives you feedback, you don’t need to respond immediately. Take a beat. Breathe. You might say, “Thanks for sharing that—I want to take some time to think about what you said.”

2. Take Stock of Your Emotions

Notice what’s coming up for you. Is it anger, shame, confusion, embarrassment, or something else? Don’t ignore what you’re feeling. Don’t over-identify with it, either.

3. Say, “Thank You”

Even if the feedback stung. Even if you think they’re wrong. Say thank you. Someone took the time to share something that could help you improve. Thanking someone doesn’t mean you agree everything they said. It signals that you’re capable of hearing hard things and makes it more likely people will tell you the truth in the future.

4. Get Curious

Shift from “That’s wrong!” to “Can you tell me more?” Ask follow-up questions. “Can you give me an example?” “What made you think that?”

5. Ask, “What’s Right?”

Not, “Is it right?” Instead, ask: “What could be right about what they shared with me?” Even if 80% feels off, is there 20% that’s useful? Something you hadn’t thought about before? Something uncomfortable but true? As you look ahead, consider: “If what this person said is accurate, how will it affect me in the future if I don’t make a change? What are the consequences?”

6. Give Yourself a Second Score

You probably already have an opinion on how well you performed. But there’s another score worth tracking: how well did you receive the feedback? Did you stay open? Ask questions? Experience your emotions without letting them overpower you? (That second score is a better predictor of long-term growth than any traditional performance metric.)

Receiving feedback non-defensively isn’t easy. It requires self-regulation, humility, and a thick skin. But it’s also one of the clearest paths to growth and success.

Most people won’t do it well. That’s what makes it a competitive edge.

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Whenever the intensity of a reaction is disproportionate to the situation at hand, we need to get curious and question with this might be. You don’t have to look too far to find an aggressive Baseball Dad or see a similar version of this behavior displayed by an overinvested Dance Mom. What is behind the psychological profile of these parents? They’re players in a fantasy on their own field of dreams.

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of his parents.” - Carl Jung

Being a parent is hard. When we bring a child into this world, the surface level of our vulnerability increases. Children are, to a limited extent, reflections of their parents. But parents need to stop treating their kids like a second chance to live their own unrealized dreams.

Your child’s calendar is not where you can work through past regrets about what you didn’t do or what “could have been.” That kind of stuff is for the therapy office, not the stands. This is their chance. Let them have it. Don’t blur the lines between your children’s activities and your self-worth. It’s true that you probably won’t play pro ball beyond a certain point in your life, but it’s never too late to pursue things that matter. Our ability to achieve doesn’t time out. When parents permit themselves to pursue their own dreams and goals, they are less likely to pressure their kids to pursue a particular path on their behalf.

It’s natural to want the best for your child. Most parents want their kids to have a better life than they did. Great! By all means, encourage and support your child’s interests. But periodically check yourself to make sure the things you are committing to are actually what they want. And, please, avoid the pressure to overschedule your kids.

When it comes to youth sports, things went way off the rails somewhere. Competition and pressure started to crowd out fun and cooperation. Parents feel pressure to keep up with what they see their peers doing and, as a result, over-enroll their kids. In extreme (but not infrequent) cases, families are now spending most of their nights and weekends at events, hemorrhaging thousands of dollars, and traveling around the country year-round to set their child up for “success.” Adults reason, “ For my child to be competitive, this is what we have to do because everyone else is too.” Unfortunately, in many cases, overscheduled childhoods hurt more than help.

Radically accept the odds that your son probably won’t pitch for the Yankees. It’s unlikely he’ll even play ball in college. When your daughter is in her thirties, the impact of her competitive cheerleading career will be negligible (unless it permanently jacked up her body image). For their sake, don’t take things too seriously—it spoils a love of the game. Kids carry what parents scream at them from the stands long after they outgrow their cleats. They remember being humiliated by their parents’ behavior. They internalize signals that to be loved, they must achieve. I know these things to be true because they come and tell me about them in therapy as adults.

What will make the most significant difference in the lives of your young athletes? Understanding how to be an effective team player. Developing perseverance and grit. Learning how to rebound from failure and disappointment with resilience. Don’t get in the way of these lessons with your behavior in the stands.

When it comes to your kids, think about the games you’re trying to play. Make sure that, in the end, your child doesn’t end up losing because of the choices you made.

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Mine: Recognizing Your Emotional Blueprint

Self-awareness is the cornerstone of emotional intelligence. It involves recognizing and taking responsibility for “our stuff”—the unique mix of past experiences, internal wiring, and personality that shape how we interpret situations and respond to others.

When we feel triggered, it’s rarely just about what’s happening in the now. More often, our history is influencing our reaction. Asking, “Is this ‘my stuff’?” highlights what requires our attention. When our fears or wounds are activated, we need to examine and address them. Our neuroses are not a problem for someone else to fix.

Yours: It’s Not About You

Not everything directed at us is about us. People carry their own unresolved issues and insecurities, which can lead them to project their struggles onto others. When someone reacts negatively, it’s worth pausing to ask: “Is this really about me?” Sometimes, we’re standing in front of a ghost from someone’s past. Other times, we become the unfortunate target of displaced stress, frustration, or unmanaged emotion.

Recognizing when someone’s behavior is not something to be taken personally allows us to avoid unnecessary emotional drain. We can extend empathy without absorbing blame. Just because someone assigns us a role in their story doesn’t mean we have to play it.

Ours: The Co-Created Dynamic

Relationships are a mashup of personalities, histories, and emotional tendencies. Sometimes, a particular combination creates complementary magic. Other times, differences fuel tension and misunderstanding. The key question to ask is, “How am I participating in what’s happening here?”

Navigating the “Ours” requires a deep understanding of yourself so that you can honestly appraise what you’re contributing to a situation, for better or worse. Then, when you recognize it, you can decide how you can improve the pattern by engaging differently. When you can understand the shared dynamic, you can consciously shape it rather than getting caught in automatic cycles.

Healthy relationships don’t just happen. They require intention. When we approach others with self-awareness, courage, and curiosity, we’re positioned for connection. With the right tools, we can love without losing ourselves in the process.

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We say we value connection.
But we rush conversations.
We scroll during dinner.
We give fractured attention while formulating our reply.

Love is not a feeling we fall into. It is a pattern we rehearse.

In my clinical work, I often remind cl…

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1. What brought you joy this week?
   This question invites you to celebrate the bright spots, no matter how small. Sharing what brought you happiness not only highlights what’s going well but also lets your partner into the moments they might have missed.

2. What was hard for you this week?
   Life isn’t always easy, and facing challenges alone can feel isolating. This question encourages vulnerability and lets your partner step into your struggles with empathy and support. It’s a way to lighten each other’s emotional load.

3. Is there anything you’ve left unspoken?
   Sometimes, it’s the things we don’t say that create the biggest distance. This question opens the floor for honesty about lingering frustration, an unvoiced fear, or even a small annoyance Addressing these things early keeps resentment from building.

4. What can I do for you this upcoming week?
   This isn’t just about chores or tasks. It’s about asking, “How can I best support you?” It shows your partner that their needs matter and that you’re willing to put in the effort to make their life a little easier.

5. Ask an open question of your choice.
   Relationships thrive on curiosity. This is your chance to dive deeper. Ask about their dreams, fears, or even something lighthearted like their current obsessions. No matter how long you’ve been together, be a student of your spouse.

6. (If you share a faith background) How can I pray for you this week?
   For couples who share a faith, this question can be a powerful way to align spiritually and emotionally. It’s a reminder that you’re supporting each other not just practically, but on a deeper, spiritual level.

When you make this conversation part of your regular rhythm, you don’t have to use precious decision-making power to decide whether or not to do it. It becomes a habit and a built-in space for connection that anchors your week. The conversation doesn’t have to happen at the exact same time or place (though it’s great to integrate it into a standing date night!).

It’s easy to fall into the trap of co-existing—sharing a bed, managing the household, and juggling schedules—while emotionally drifting apart. Over time, couples can start to feel like roommates, or worse, strangers living under the same roof. Regular relationship check-ins ensure that even in the busiest seasons, you remain emotionally attuned, not just logistically coordinated.

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One of the reasons that prompt many people to start psychotherapy is relationship problems. Usually, when people describe their interpersonal challenges, I hear patterns. Our relationships tend to be variations on a theme. Because wherever we go, there we are. “Why do I keep doing this?“ “Why do I keep coming back to this kind of person?“ The answer? It may sound cliche, but it usually starts with our parents.

Psychologist and researcher Jonathan Shedler explains, “Our earliest attachments create the templates for subsequent relationships. With the result that we repeat relationship patterns throughout our lives. Because they are present from the beginning, our patterns may be as invisible to us as water is to a fish.” Our first relational experiences live forever in our neural circuitry. Things that happened in our brains before we could even talk, play out in our relationships for the rest of our lives. The first things that fire together, wire deep.

Infants are helpless. They instinctively know who they rely on to survive. Because infants must adapt, they will adapt. They calculate what they must do to maintain connections with caregivers. Children are constantly trying to figure out, “Will you leave? Will you come back? Do you care? Will you hurt me or help me feel better?“ An infant develops a sense of security when a caregiver is attuned to their cues. A child learns to trust when parents are dependable and reliably respond to their needs.

At times, circumstances between caregivers and their children are less than ideal. Most parents are doing the best they can at any given time, but the resources they have to work with vary significantly. Some parents have unresolved trauma, mental health challenges, or personal struggles that get in the way of reacting to their young children with reliable empathy.

Early experiences in life set the stage for different “attachment patterns” that we carry with us long after we leave our first home. Attachment influences how individuals tolerate closeness and separation, handle conflict, experience intimacy, and communicate their wishes and needs. It affects what we expect from other people in relationships. Attachment drives how we hold people hostage or push them away. It impacts whether we respond with adaptive flexibility when confronted with life’s complex, often difficult circumstances.

A significant body of psychological research has been focused on and adult attachment. The schools of investigation are separate but related. To help you understand the concept a bit more, I’m going to blend some terminology from the categorizations academics have used. Estimates suggest that about 50% of the population falls into the “secure” category, while 20% of people exhibit anxious traits, 25% act more avoidant, and a small subset exhibit more severe disorganized behaviors. I suspect you will be able to see yourself (and perhaps your partner) in one of four descriptions:

SECURE

People with a secure attachment style are generally adept at managing their emotions and are connected to a sense of personal agency. Their inner thoughts and feelings match their emotional expressions and behavior. Secure individuals have the courage to be creative and take calculated risks. Relationally, they have the capacity to develop deep, meaningful connections with others but are comfortable during periods when they are alone, too. Securely attached adults trust others and are resilient in the face of adversity.

ANXIOUS/PREOCCUPIED

People with an anxious/preoccupied attachment style are often flooded by their emotions. Psychologist Diana Fosha aptly described that people who are anxious/preoccupied can “feel (and often reel) but struggle to deal.” They work hard to read other people but are often emotionally overactivated, making them prone to misinterpreting cues, jumping to conclusions, and overreacting. Interpersonally, they may seem desperate in their bids to avoid disconnection from others. They might describe themselves as “incomplete” when they are not in a relationship. Individuals who are anxious/preoccupied often dislike being alone; some would rather be in a bad relationship than no relationship at all. If you’ve ever called someone “clingy,” they likely fall into this camp. These individuals are often plagued by self-doubt, and their self-esteem tends to be unstable. They often crave praise and rely heavily on external feedback to form their sense of self. People who are anxious/preoccupied may have an endless need for reassurance in relationships. “Are we okay?“ “Do you really like me?“ “Are you mad at me?” Are you sure?!” A partner can repeat themselves over and over, but often their loving responses don’t seem to stick. People with this attachment pattern tend to perceive (and project) problems where they don’t exist, which can create negative self-fulfilling prophecies. At the core of many anxious/preoccupied relational dynamics is deep mistrust.

AVOIDANT/DISMISSIVE

People who are avoidant-dismissive may seem emotionally hard to reach. They are often cut off from their feelings. Avoidant/dismissive individuals are compulsively self-reliant. They won’t let themselves need or want because they’re trying to avoid the pain of disappointment. Somewhere along the way they learned that other people aren’t dependable. Important people leave, die, cause pain, or don’t come back. Individuals with this attachment style keep people at arm’s length as a self-protective strategy. They pre-empt rejection. “If I don’t get too close, you can’t hurt me.“ They may act indifferent, look aloof, and appear not to care. Deep inside, though, they are anxious and desperate for love. They want connection but calculate the risk of vulnerability to be too terrifyingly high.

DISORGANIZED

Individuals with disorganized attachment often are painful mashups of the worst of both of the preoccupied/dismissive worlds. They exist in a world of pain and psychic confusion. Often, these individuals live on a whipsaw of emotional push-and-pull, making them difficult to be close to. People exhibiting disorganized attachment patterns often have histories of profound trauma that has seriously disrupted their development of self or fractured the core of who they are.

Attachment theory isn’t a blame-the-parents game. It’s a way of understanding how and why we tend to move through the world the way we do. Self-awareness surrounding your interpersonal patterns can help you as you date, partner, parent, and work. Attachment styles are not a life sentence. They are stable but plastic. Many people raised in emotionally healthy environments have gone on to experience trauma and hurt that has derailed them in some way. Relational experiences throughout our lives modify the firing in our hearts and minds. The amazing news is that no matter your history, it is never too late to have corrective experiences and form new mental pathways. Neuroplasticity is the science of hope.

Relationships can hurt or heal us. Parents aren’t the only people who can serve as a secure base in our lives. When early connections have been problematic, subsequent relationships can offer second chances. Psychotherapy, at its best, provides this opportunity. But there is power and possibility in many connections we form throughout our lives. Who are the people who help you regroup? Who assists you in re-anchoring to a more accurate view of yourself and the world around you? Think about interactions that help you settle and leave you feeling more calm. Who talks you down when you’re stressed? Whose vote of confidence ignites your courage? Identify these people in your family, your friend group, and at work. If you step back, you may discover you have secure bases all around you. Struggling to regulate? Reach out and connect with one of them. It’s what you were wired to do.

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This week, my parents signed the papers to sell my childhood home. After 45 years operating our family farm, they retired. Knowing this transition was coming, I made three trips back to Minnesota with my kids this year. In segments, I said a protracted goodbye to people and a place that shaped me. (Minnesotans are notorious for loooong goodbyes, so this felt very on brand.) I woke up in my childhood bedroom one crisp morning this October for the very last time. There was an ache in my heart, and a deep well of gratitude too. My family was there, together.

One of the first nights on my final trip, I looked around the dinner table and thought about the life-and-death near misses each of us has lived through. My mom narrowly survived a scare where she almost died of carbon monoxide poisoning in the barn when I was in elementary school. My dad suffered a heart attack in the field in 2021. Thankfully, a friend was on site to do CPR for 45 minutes while they waited for an ambulance. My husband made it out of Afganistan. Barely. And then there was the story of the kids and me. There were many moments when things could have ended very differently for our family. Being there together felt like a gift. If I could choose how to close a chapter, it would be this. Hard and good. Full. Complete. It was time. But I was still sad. In grief, sorrow is often commensurate with depth of love that once was.

When people ask where I am from, I usually laugh and say, “I don’t know.” I often share that I was born and raised in Minnesota and go on to explain that I have spent my adult life collecting addresses across the globe thanks to my husband’s military career. Boulder, Colorado. Cambridge, United Kingdom. Washington, DC. Princeton, New Jersey. Napa, California. Ramstein, Germany. Montgomery, Alabama. Not counting the weeks and months lived out of suitcases in temporary living quarters on military bases, I can name fourteen addresses since I moved out of my parents’ house at eighteen. It’s a lot of zip codes to keep track of when you’re trying to pump your fuel.

Still, 56243 was always the place I came back to. My parent’s farm was the fixed point. My fulcrum. A permanent landing spot. Until now.

The military has taught me many things. One of the most important is this: a house is not a home. Home is something you build with people. I have said goodbye to many houses over the years. Tearful final walkthroughs. Rooms filled with boxes holding entire chapters of life. But this one is different.

I know my parent’s house inside and out. And, it knows me. Those walls witnessed a lot. If they could talk, there would tell stories upon stories. I’ve brain mapped every creak in the floors. I still smile when I see the patched hole in the bathroom wall—the one I kicked in during a fit of anger when I was nine. Philip and I decided to get married while lying on a blanket in the basement. It’s where I woke up on Christmas morning. The kitchen were my mom decorated my birthday cakes. This house is where we were a family.

I don’t have any desire to live in Minnesota again. It’s too bloody cold. My parent’s house was not fancy. I would not choose the property if I saw it listed online. Still, I hate that it’s gone. What I will miss is not the house itself. What I long for is the feeling of home. Knowing and being known.

The house my parents just sold was the third dwelling place I ever lived in. I was brought home from the hospital to an old blue farmhouse. I only have trace memories of it, but the ones I have are happy. Then in 1989, something happened that rocked my world. A baby boy entered the scene. The cold was extra bitter that December. My parents knew it was time for something different when Joshua had to sleep in an upstairs hallway because the bedrooms were too drafty for an infant.

Money was tight then. There was no budget for something extravagant. In the early nineties, my parents scraped together enough to buy a new double-wide. I remember house shopping vividly. To me, the manufactured homes we toured were like mansions. I mistakenly thought they’d come furnished, so I’d lobby my parents to purchase the models where I saw phones in the staged bedrooms. We looked for a long time for the “right” one. After they finally picked out a place that they felt fit the bill, we moved into a trailer on my grandparents’ farm for a few months. During that time, my dad tore down the old house. Then, one swampy spring day in 1991, the new house came down the driveway. It was delivered by truck in two halves. I excitedly watched as they rolled it onto the new basement. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but that structure would serve as my new foundation. It was the platform from which I’d launch into a wild, big, beautiful life—the kind of existence I’d only dreamed of as a small town girl who fell asleep in a bedroom with blue carpet and tiny roses on the wall.

In that house, I grew up. I learned who I was. It held our joy and our pain. It’s where everything started. It’s where we loved. Knowing that there is no “going back” is heartbreaking. I am grateful I got to bring my babies there. I pray the memories we created together in that spot during their early years are something they carry with them forever.

We like to tell ourselves that buying and selling a house is a rational decision. A financial one. Square footage. Interest rates. Timing. But that story leaves out most of what actually drives these choices. Homes are repositories for memory. They anchor identity. They become symbols of safety, stability, and continuity, especially in a world that rarely offers much of either.

As humans, we don’t like giving things up. And as soon as we own something, work and pour into it, it’s value weighs heavier. Letting go of a family home rarely feels like a neutral exchange, even when the numbers “make sense” or a situation necessitates a new arrangement. We do not just sell property. We grieve what it represented. The routines. The rituals. The version of ourselves who once lived there.

That is why selling a childhood home can feel disorienting. It removes a psychological backstop. A place we believed we could always return to, even if we never planned to. The house becomes a stand-in for permanence. When it goes, we are reminded that nothing actually stays fixed. We like to think of real estate as a business decision. But when it comes to a family home, it is never just financial. It is emotional. Psychological. It is about identity, attachment, and belonging.

A house can be bought and sold. A home is something else entirely. It stays with you. It is built over time, through shared meals and ordinary days and moments we do not recognize as sacred until they are gone.

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Looking back isn’t about nostalgia or self-criticism. It’s about understanding the patterns that shaped you: what supported you, what drained you, what surprised you, and what end…

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“It’s a Wonderful Life” opens with the lead character, George Bailey, contemplating suicide. It’s a heavy start to a holiday movie. The plot is raw but real. George was on the brink of financial ruin, struggling in his relationships, and lacking a sense of purpose in his work. When he compared himself to his peers’ accomplishments, he didn’t believe he measured up. These aren’t fictions of a movie plot—they are struggles of humanity.

Buckling under the weight of his world, George was desperate, unsure how to carry on. As everything seemed to close in on him, his field of vision narrowed. He could only see one way out—taking his life. He was moments away from an irreversible decision that would take his pain, multiply it, and hand it to everyone around him. Then, his plan to jump off a bridge was interrupted. Shortly thereafter, George was afforded a rare glimpse into how radically different (and markedly worse) the world would be without him. This visit to an alternative universe snapped his attention. It altered his perception. He realized that his presence on the planet mattered—a lot.

We don’t get to watch the reel of what this world would be like without us. Still, we need to live, love, and work knowing that it will count in ways that we will never fully know. Think about the people you care for the most. What would your life be like without them, and theirs without you?

We rarely get to see the full effect of our influence—however small or seemingly insignificant. Consider this: a single conversation or statement can alter the trajectory of someone’s entire life. In turn, they will go on to impact countless others.

Our impact is often unseen. In my clinical practice, I typically know my losses but most victories are invisible to me—and always will be. Transformation in psychotherapy isn’t limited to what I witness while clients sit in my office. The real magic happens when they walk out my door and go on to lead altered lives years after our last session. I know the work I do makes a difference, I just often don’t get to see it. I press on regardless because I trust the process. I stay centered on my what and my why—in all roles, all spaces, for everyone whose path intersects with mine.

I live in my own Bedford Falls.

You do too.

This holiday, I’m not sure where you see yourself in the arc of the “It’s a Wonderful Life” plot. Maybe you are the man on the bridge, depressed and discouraged. Perhaps, your heart is holding the joy of the closing scene.

Wherever you are when these words find you, remember: you have been given one life.

Only one.

Use it on purpose, for purpose.

It’s not guaranteed to be easy. Often, it won’t seem fair. You aren’t promised an existence without struggle. Instead, you are guaranteed pain and disappointment.

But this one life you have—it is a gift. A powerful one. And that is a truly wonderful thing.

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Be joyful. Be generous. Be present. Be everywhere.

For many people, this season is an endurance test. Calendars are packed. Evenings disappear. The social “yes” pile grows, while rest, family routines, and recovery are tossed aside. Overcommitment often isn’t a time-management problem. It’s a breakdown of priori…

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St. Martin’s Day, or Martinstag, is celebrated across Germany on November 11th in honor of St. Martin of Tours, a patron saint known for his humility and acts of kindness. The holiday commemorates the story of Martin cutting his cloak in half to share it with a freezing beggar on a bitter winter night—a simple but profound act of compassion.

Lantern processions are central to the celebration. Rooted in medieval traditions, they symbolize the light of St. Martin’s generosity and remind us to carry his spirit of kindness and care into the world. The processions bring communities together, illuminating the dark November nights with glowing lanterns, shared songs, and a sense of unity.

I’ll never forget our last St. Martin’s Day in Germany. The air was crisp, the scent of wood smoke and mulled wine mingling as twilight fell. We joined friends and local villagers, who gathered together to walk through the streets of Rodenbach. Children carried handmade lanterns, their faces lit by the flickering candles inside.

As we walked through the village, we sang “Lanterne, Lanterne, Sonne, Mond und Sterne”—a song as simple as it was beautiful.“Burn bright, my light, burn bright, my light, but not my dear lantern.” In the melody, I found a message that has stayed with me long after that night: the importance of preserving the flame without letting it consume the container.

There’s a thin line between bright and burned. It’s a tension many of us face, especially in a culture that praises self-sacrifice and jobs that center on caretaking. We want to be a light for others—a source of guidance, support, and strength. But too often, in our efforts to shine brightly, we overlook the risk of burning out.

Burnout doesn’t happen suddenly. It’s usually a slow, insidious unraveling–the result of focusing on others while neglecting ourselves. At first, the signs might be subtle: a constant undercurrent of fatigue, creeping cynicism about things we once loved, or the quiet but persistent sense that we’re shouldering too much. In those moments, it’s tempting to push through—to give more, be stronger, and keep going. But the song’s lyrics contain important wisdom: to burn bright, we must also protect the lantern.

Here are a few lessons we can draw from those lantern-lit streets in Rodenbach:

1. Set Boundaries to Protect Your Flame - Just as a lantern’s glass shields its flame from the wind, our boundaries protect our energy. Saying no isn’t selfish—it’s an essential act of self-care.

2. Refuel Regularly - A lantern needs sufficient oil to keep its light steady. What fuels you? Whether it’s exercise, connection with people you love, or creative pursuits, make space for the practices that restore your energy.

3. Surround Yourself with a Village - We walked through Rodenbach that night, it struck me that none of us lit the village alone. Each lantern added to the collective glow, creating a light more powerful than any single flame by itself.

St. Martin’s Day illuminates the beauty of generosity and shared light. But it also holds a deeper truth: we cannot give to others without safeguarding the spark inside. St. Martin himself didn’t give his only cloak away, leaving himself exposed, with nothing—he split it. When I think of that night in Rodenbach, I’m reminded of this balance. Be generous, yes. Be a source of light, absolutely. But don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

Laterne, Laterne,
Sonne, Mond und Sterne.
Brenne auf, mein Licht,
Brenne auf, mein Licht,
Aber nur meine liebe Laterne nicht.

Lantern, lantern,
Sun, moon, and stars.
Burn bright, my light,
Burn bright, my light,
But not my dear lantern.

Care for yourself so that your light can shine steady. Not just for one night, but for many seasons to come.

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Most parents work tirelessly to give their children a better life than they had. Across generations, countless stories capture the sacrifices families make to ensure their kids have it easier. We work to provide opportunities that will position children to flourish and thrive. We aim to shield our children from the pain of scarcity. But determining how much to give—and what to withhold—is a delicate balance. No parent wants to raise an entitled child. No one wants to raise a spoiled brat.

We’re inundated with advertising designed to push us to spend, especially during the holidays. Yet money remains one of the least discussed topics in families. Conversations about the challenges of wealth are rare. Mention that affluence has its struggles, and many respond with skepticism: “How hard can it really be to have a lot of money when so many have so little?” We don’t believe that, in some cases, wealth can be burdensome and can turn into too much of a “good” thing. Having more money doesn’t make problems go away. It changes your challenges.

In my clinical practice, clients talk to me frequently about financial stress. I see how money impacts all aspects of our lives. When I work with affluent families, a common concern is how not to let their wealth hurt their kids. It’s not a champagne problem–it’s a real threat. Entitled children who are used to having everything handed to them can be monsters as adults. Individuals who lack financial discipline and exhibit a poor work ethic because their early environment didn’t require it often become poor pilots of their own lives.

There is often unique tension for parents whose own life stories have followed a rags-to-riches arc. Many individuals who have managed to jump socioeconomic rungs recognize that part of what helped them create their current life came from things they learned through their own experiences and struggles. They wonder, “Is it possible to recreate valuable money lessons without replication of the same financial challenges I faced?“ Parents with more resources to raise their children than their own parents had may grapple with how to handle money with their own kids. They want to teach fundamental financial principles and virtues to position their kids for success.

Parenting is, without question, the most humbling journey I’ve undertaken. I’m in the trenches trying to figure out how to best raise generous, grateful, hard-working children who will become generous, grateful, hard-working adults. My husband and I sometimes wrestle with what this should look like in practice. We are both in the category of kids who grew up in homes with hard-working parents who had very limited financial resources during our childhoods. I grew up on a farm in the Midwest. When I was young, the markets were abysmal and my parents were hemorrhaging money. My husband’s parents were missionaries in the third world. We never went hungry, and the lights were always on. Still, my husband and I were conscious from a very young age that there was not much money to go around. Every time I take my kids out to eat or book an Airbnb, I am struck with the contrast of my own early childhood financial benchmark with theirs. How do I help them appreciate “how good they have it” and instill the foundations to help them build their own financial security?

When it comes to parenting, I will never pretend to have things all figured out. (No one does—if they tell you otherwise, they’re fooling themselves or lying.) But, as a parent and a psychologist who works in the finance industry, when it comes to kids and money I have a few thoughts…

1. The cost of what you buy your children doesn’t determine its value to them—the quality of your relationship does. My children will have no appreciation for how much anything under our Christmas tree costs. As military brats, they spent most of the summer playing with boxes and packing tape while we waited three months for our belongings to arrive following an international move for my husband’s latest military assignment. Older kids who may have more of a sense of what things cost can often catch on pretty quickly if someone is trying to replace time or presence with nice things. I talk to these people in therapy. Trust me, this strategy doesn’t work. You can’t buy love.

2. A want is not a need. It’s important for people, young and old, to discern what is essential and what is “nice to have.” When people treat wants as needs, they can easily justify going to great lengths to secure an object of desire.

3. Respond gracefully to “no” and “not now.” The ability to delay gratification is a crucial life skill. We can’t always have what we want exactly when we want it. It’s important that kids start to develop the ability to tolerate the discomfort and manage the feelings that this reality principle creates. I’m committed to weathering the (thunderous) storms with my kids when they don’t get everything they want in the store. I don’t want them to turn into adults who throw adult-sized tantrums in the future. Giving in to avoid whining may offer short-term relief, but it sets the stage for long-term challenges.

4. Instill stewardship. My earliest memory of money is bringing a frosting container of change to church to put in the offering plate when I was four years old. I want my children to understand that their money is not just about them, no matter how large or small the sum. Money is a tool. Whatever amount has been entrusted to us at any given time, money comes with responsibility. I am trying to raise my kids to look outside of themselves and seek opportunities to use the resources they have to improve the lives of others. Giving is a discipline, practice, and one of the greatest gifts in the world.

5. Talk about money thoughtfully with your kids on a regular basis. Not talking with your kids about money doesn’t mean kids aren’t having thoughts or feelings about it. It’s important to consistently have developmentally-appropriate conversations about the topic. I want to raise my children to be financially conscious, skilled, and confident. To do so, I need to normalize talking about money.

   Monitor the tenor of the discourse when discussing money with your kids(read: don’t transmit your financial anxiety to your kids). If children hear parents talking about not having enough money or struggling financially, make crystal clear that it is not a child’s responsibility to solve parents’ money problems. Kids can’t meaningfully control a family’s financial situation. If they start taking ownership of something out of their control, they may become a bundle of anxiety. Parents need to provide reassurance when kids pick up on financial strain. Remind children that their responsibilities within the family are different than a mom or dad’s.

   It’s my job to educate my kids about various aspects of financial life. My husband and I encourage curiosity, learning, and asking questions about the topic. My daughter loves looking at stocks with her dad. She can’t yet articulate the difference between value and momentum investing strategies, but early exposure to conversation and information will help increase the likelihood that investing and other aspects of money life aren’t daunting to her later on.

6. Teach the difference between having and affording. My maternal great-grandmother lived through the Great Depression. I never met her, but her sage financial wisdom was passed down to me by my mother. When I would look at the people around me and beg for some of the things they had, I would be reminded by my mom, “Just because they have it doesn’t mean they can afford it.” I want my kids to understand that if they make a choice to live a life they can’t afford, they will feel stressed and suffocated. Learning to live contently within your means is freedom.

7. Just because you can buy something for your kids, doesn’t mean you should. Growing up, most of my clothes, shoes, and toys were second-hand. It was all that my parents could afford at the time. While I could afford to buy more new things for my kids, I question whether it’s truly necessary. Kids grow like weeds and destroy things—fast. Lucky for me, recycling and reusing are now very in vogue. Even if it wasn’t, I believe my kids will be better off if they aren’t used to always having the latest and greatest of everything the world tries to sell to them. Based on their choices for professions or partners, there is no guarantee that they will have the same resources available to them that my husband and I do right now. They may have more. They may have less. While I will take care not to create an environment of scarcity or undue financial stress, I think it’s wise if their ability to practice contentment is not contingent on everything being expensive or brand new.

8. Kids need to know where money comes from so they can figure out how to get it for themselves. Money doesn’t come from a credit card—or the Bank of Mom and Dad. Children must understand that parents’ money is neither automatic nor unconditional. I work for mine, and I believe it’s important my kids learn to eventually work for theirs. There is no one-size-fits-all rule for when or how much money to share with your children or when to give it to them. But kids need to know that Dad or Mom won’t pay for anything, any time, for the rest of their life. I’m not helping my kids if they don’t know how to go out into the world, contribute to society, and be compensated fairly. My husband and I have intentionally fostered an entrepreneurial spirit in our children from a very young age. Our twins started their first recycling business when they were four. We’re having them develop the practices of saving, giving, and spending their own earnings. Someday, my son and daughter will live independently of me. They shouldn’t rely on my money in perpetuity.

9. Tell the truth. Don’t keep financial secrets from your kids. My young children don’t need to know every detail of my balance sheet, but it will be a problem if I hide the truth of my financial situation from my kids for decades of their lives. Sometimes parents conceal information about wealth or how dire a financial picture is because they think they’re “protecting” their children. Sadly, this decision, while well-intentioned, often has a different impact. Pretending you have more money than you do isn’t going to help your child. It’s modeling financial denial and unhealthy behavior. Conversely, hiding wealth from your kids can hurt your relationship too. You may think that telling your adult child they will come into an unexpected windfall will be a pleasant surprise, but this kind of news can be overwhelming, emotional, and erode trust.

Kids pick up on financial dynamics in a home more than people give them credit for. People’s first money memories are often burned in their brains far earlier than most adults think. I’ve spent more than a decade sitting with clients in a therapy office. People talk about money with their shrink as much as they discuss other taboo topics like sex and death. It’s an emotionally-fraught topic that’s tied to so many deeper things—security, significance, trust, safety, power, status, and control. I know if I can help my kids learn to manage their money so that it doesn’t master them later on, I will give them a priceless gift.

I’m grateful for the financial heritage I received from my parents. They didn’t give it to me by writing a check. Instead, they modeled prudent financial behavior and helped me practice my emerging financial skills while I lived under their roof. The economic milieu of my early childhood shaped me. It wasn’t always easy, but I’m forever thankful for what I learned experientially. My kids are living in a different classroom. To ensure they receive many of the same lessons, I must take an active role as their educator, model, and guide.

My goal as a parent is not to provide my kids with the easiest life possible. I don’t want my short-term attempts to ‘help’ to ultimately hold them back. It’s not my job to protect them from challenges. Instead, I want to help them develop the competence and confidence to do hard things. They will learn to cope by coping. I want to raise resilient kids with perseverance and grit who can tolerate discomfort. My kids will face different hurdles than I did. My role is not to constantly rescue them. Doing so will only rob them of invaluable opportunities to grow. The best things I’ll ever give my kids won’t cost a cent.

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1. Exhaustion That Won’t Quit: You’re tired, all the time. Even after a full night’s sleep, you wake up feeling like you’ve run a marathon. That ever-present fatigue isn’t just physical; it’s emotional and mental too.

2. When Work Feels Like a Chore: Tasks that used to energize you now feel like a slog. Your productivity has taken a nosedive, and you find it hard to focus on even the simplest things. The sense of satisfaction from a job well done is slipping through your fingers.

3. The Great Disconnect: You’re finding it harder to care. Whether it’s about the work itself, your colleagues, or the clients you serve, there’s a growing distance. Passion and purpose? They’ve packed up and left.

4. Short Fuse: The little things set you off. Whether it’s your coworker’s tapping pen or a minor mistake, your patience is running thin, and you’re finding it harder to keep a lid on your emotions.

5. The Cynic is Center Stage: Negativity is creeping in. You’ve noticed a shift in your outlook—suddenly, everything feels pointless, and you’re questioning why you even bother.

6. The Procrastination Trap: You’re avoiding the work that used to come easily. Tasks that should be quick and painless now feel insurmountable, and you’re kicking the can down the road.

7. Restless Nights: Sleep isn’t the refuge it once was. You’re tossing and turning, waking up multiple times, or just staring at the ceiling, unable to switch off your mind.

8. Your Body’s Cry for Help: Your body is speaking up—headaches, stomachaches, muscle pain, or getting sick more often. Stress is taking a physical toll, and it’s harder to ignore.

9. Isolated and Alone: You’re pulling away from others, whether it’s avoiding chats with coworkers or skipping out on social gatherings. The desire to retreat and be alone is stronger than ever.

10. The Lost Drive: That spark of motivation is dimming. What used to get you out of bed in the morning now feels like a weight. You’re dragging yourself through the motions.

11. Scatterbrained: You’re forgetting things—whether it’s a deadline, a meeting, or even simple details. Your once sharp mind feels foggy and scattered.

12. Overwhelm at Every Turn: What once felt manageable now feels like it’s all too much. Even small tasks can make you feel like you’re drowning.

13. Neglecting Self-Care: The healthy habits that used to be a part of your routine are falling by the wayside. Exercise, eating well, or engaging in hobbies you love—those things are starting to take a backseat.

14. Reaching for the Crutches: You’re leaning more on alcohol, caffeine, or other substances to get through the day or unwind. It’s becoming more of a coping mechanism than just a casual indulgence.

15. Elusive Joy: There’s a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction creeping into all areas of your life. That deep-seated joy you once felt? It’s becoming harder and harder to find.

How’d you do? Importantly, how are you *really* doing?

You weren’t meant to live in a survival state, barely getting by. This life is meant to be lived, full of love. You deserve to thrive. If you’re struggling, don’t settle. Reach out. None of us were ever meant to do this alone.

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As a child, I loved the wonder of Willy Wonka’s world. As an adult, reading it again, I recognize it’s also one of the greatest behavioral finance stories of all time. The chocolate factory isn’t just whimsical fantasy. It’s a case study in human behavior. Each golden ticket winner offers a lesson and crystalizes a relatable but problematic trap:

• Augustus Gloop: Unchecked consumption and greed.

• Veruca Salt: Entitlement and the lure of immediacy

• Violet Beauregarde: The danger of not knowing when to stop.

• Mike Teavee: Distraction and disconnection.

And then there’s Charlie. Sweet-as-chocolate Charlie. A boy who has nothing but manages to carry himself with humility, gratitude, and restraint. He isn’t perfect (he did partake in the fizzy lifting drinks after all). Still, he shows us that character can outweigh circumstance.

Behavioral finance asks: Why do we make the choices we do? How do we respond to scarcity, temptation, competition, and abundance? Roald Dahl may not have had Kahneman and Tversky on his bookshelf, but he understood something about human nature. Today I can see that the factory was never really about chocolate. It was about character and the ways we reveal ourselves when faced with desire and opportunity.

When I close the book at night, my kids just want to know what happens to the Oompa-Loompas or the Everlasting Gobstopper. That’s how it should be. But after they’re kissed and tucked in I’ve found myself marveling at the fact that a children’s story I adored is also a timeless parable about money, self-control, and the choices that shape a life.

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