TikToks, Promises, and Plant Pots: Lessons in Relationship Reciprocity

 TikToks, Promises, and Plant Pots: Lessons in Relationship Reciprocity

Ever send someone a TikTok that's basically your love language, only to hear crickets? Yeah, me too. Relationships thrive when we care about each other's interests—be it gardening, gaming, or figuring out who stole whose charger.

In Mi'kmaq culture, relationships are guided by the Seven Sacred Teachings, reminding us of the importance of mutual respect, honesty, and humility. But sometimes, let's be real—even the best intentions slip. In a journal entry I wrote back in 2021, I pleaded, "Take a few minutes a day to watch the TikToks I send you... I've done my fair share of watching whatever you want and even tried playing your video games, but you rarely return the favor."

That moment came during a relationship where I found myself writing lists, suggesting apps, proposing journaling, and even Googling date ideas—just trying to spark something, anything. "Start a conversation about our relationship and how you're feeling at least once a week," I wrote. I was practically begging for connection, for follow-through, for some shared vision of the future. But instead, I was met with emotional shutdowns, broken promises, and defensiveness.

And you know what? No amount of lists, talks, or tears fixed it. You can beg someone to meet you halfway, but if they’re committed to standing still, you’ll just wear yourself out walking in circles. Sometimes the bravest thing—the most sacred thing—you can do is stop trying to fix what was never being tended to in the first place.

So I left.

And leaving wasn’t easy. But it was healing. Because reciprocity isn’t about begging. It’s about choosing each other, again and again, with love, respect, and presence.

Whether it's promising to take up woodworking, hiking, or even growing a pot plant (no, not that kind!), the work of relationship is mutual. Show up. Laugh together. Make plans. Ask about each other's dreams. And for the love of all things sacred—watch the TikTok.

Here’s to showing up, learning together, and never again settling for a love that makes you beg for basic care.

When Your Child's Journey Becomes a Mirror: Supporting Autumn Through Identity, Body Image, and the Messy Middle

When Your Child's Journey Becomes a Mirror: Supporting Autumn Through Identity, Body Image, and the Messy Middle

Parenting is never linear. Especially when you’re co-parenting, trying to heal trauma, and helping a child find herself in a world that doesn’t always feel safe.

Autumn, my bonus daughter, went through a time in 2021 where she began exploring her identity. For a while, she used the name Kai and asked for they/them pronouns. She was brave, thoughtful, and curious. And like any journey of self-discovery, it wasn’t about rushing to a destination—it was about the space to explore safely. Eventually, Autumn let us know that she identifies as a girl and wants to go by she/her again. And so we honor that. Always.

That year was layered. We were managing bedroom reshuffles, new sibling dynamics, sensory needs, and emotional waves that hit hard and fast. Autumn and her brother Andy (also non-binary at the time) started sharing a room to support better routines. Aurora and Maddy were paired up too, hoping to reduce chaos and increase connection. These changes were practical—but also deeply intentional. We wanted to create spaces where each child could feel seen and supported in exactly who they were.

And yet, it wasn’t just gender identity that Autumn was navigating. Body image became an overwhelming source of pain. She started sharing that she hated her body—especially her chest—and wanted a binder. She talked about wanting to lose weight in unhealthy ways and feeling pressured from all sides. She said her mom had been bribing her to stop sneaking food and commenting harshly on her appearance. One day she called Nick, visibly shaken, telling him that she kept asking her mom for space, but instead was met with body-shaming remarks that only fueled her shame. "She says I gained a lot of weight and eat too much," Autumn told us through tears. "I hate how I look."

As parents, it’s excruciating to hear those words. You want to fix it. You want to protect them from every cruel comment—external or internal. But sometimes all you can do is hold space. Validate. Remind them they’re worthy and loved exactly as they are. We tried to give her that, over and over again.

And still, the days weren’t always smooth. Like the day we all overslept. Autumn was slow getting ready and finally told us her foot hurt from slipping on the stairs at school the day before. When we asked why she hadn’t told anyone, she said it just started hurting in the night. That same day, I had a medical appointment for my hip, Nick had two major meetings, and we were scrambling to piece together a plan. I called her mom to see if she could help, but was met with complaints and dismissiveness. So we figured it out—because that’s what we do.

Every part of this story is messy. And real. Autumn’s experience of gender and body, our attempts to navigate co-parenting under pressure, the feelings of helplessness that come when all you want is peace and support for your child—and instead you're dodging landmines.

I share this because I know we’re not alone. So many families are navigating identity, mental health, and co-parenting dynamics all at once. And it’s hard. Really hard. But it’s also sacred work. To keep showing up. To keep listening. To let your child evolve and change their mind and try again. And again.

Autumn is not Kai anymore—but Kai was part of her journey. And every version of her deserves love, respect, and space to become.

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Wela'lioq to the kids who are still figuring themselves out—and to the adults doing their best to love them through it.

When a Child Feels Afraid to Share Joy

When a Child Feels Afraid to Share Joy

On July 1, 2021, we witnessed something both small and enormous—something that speaks volumes about the emotional weight children can carry during high-conflict co-parenting.

That day, Aurora was unusually quiet about calling her mom. When we gently asked why she hadn’t been answering messages, she hesitated. I encouraged her: “Don’t you want to tell Mommy how much fun you had this weekend? Don’t you miss her?” She replied, “Well, I do miss her a little, but I don’t want her to get mad at me.”

That one sentence held so much. I offered to stay near during the call if that would help. She got scared. Nick offered to sit with us at the dining room table, and we made the call together.

When her mom asked where she had gone swimming, Aurora looked visibly nervous and turned her tablet away from the camera. “I don’t want to tell her. She’s going to get mad,” she whispered. I gently reassured her, “It’s okay to tell her, it should be fine.” Katie overheard and asked Aurora to go somewhere private so she wouldn't be interrupted. Aurora went into the kitchen, with Nick following to be nearby.

Eventually, Aurora told her where she went—Pop-up and Grandma Andrea’s. Katie said she wasn’t mad and asked, “Why would I be mad?” Aurora just shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” After the call, Nick asked her again why she was afraid. She replied, “Mommy doesn’t like any of your friends or family usually. She usually gets really mad at us if we go anywhere or do anything with them. I figured it would be the same with Pop-up and Grandma Andrea.”

That conversation still sits heavy in my heart. No child should feel like they have to hide joy. No child should feel afraid to talk about swimming or spending time with people who love them. But so many do—because they are caught in the emotional tug-of-war between parents. It’s heartbreaking, and it’s not fair to them.

This is why we keep telling the truth. This is why we keep documenting. Not to shame or punish, but to protect—to validate—to say, “This happened. This matters. This child matters.”

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Wela'lioq for holding space with me. May we always protect the right of every child to share joy without fear.

Co-Parenting Challenges and Listening to Our Kids

Reflecting on April 12, 2021: Co-Parenting Challenges and Listening to Our Kids

Originally documented April 12, 2021 | Posted now as part of my healing and reflection journey

There are moments in parenting where you feel completely powerless—where you’re just trying to hold it together and do what’s best for your kids, even when the situation feels impossible. April 12, 2021, was one of those days.

That afternoon, Nick got a call from Autumn and Aurora’s counselor, Kerith. She had read Nick’s summary email from Friday and wanted to follow up after hearing from DCF that morning. Nick shared what we knew so far during a short 10-minute call—just before he had to leave to pick up our youngest from preschool.

Later that evening, the school counselor replied to a message from Katie, confirming she would check in with the girls the following day.

Something Was Off

At 6:51 PM, Autumn called Nick. She sounded happy. She wanted to play Minecraft and chatted about her day. But then the conversation took a turn. She mentioned something about her mom being on her account, messaging her friends.

Nick tried to stay neutral and reassuring, saying maybe Katie was just checking to make sure she was safe online. Autumn asked about a strange app called “EZOneHand.” Nick looked it up while on the phone with her—it was just a keyboard tool—but in hindsight, the conversation hinted that Autumn felt like her privacy was being violated. And that was upsetting for her.

The Devices Taken

Shortly after, Andrew (11) called Autumn to ask if she wanted to play Minecraft with him. But the moment he called, he overheard Katie yelling and taking her devices away. He didn’t even get to say goodbye before the call ended. He was so upset, he immediately called Nick, worried.

At 7:28 PM, Autumn called again—this time from the home phone. Her devices had been taken. She was upset. The call was chaotic. Katie quickly jumped on the line, accusing Autumn of being aggressive and intimidating her, claiming she had thrown her tablet (which had already been taken earlier).

Autumn later admitted she threw a water bottle out of frustration after Katie had followed her around the house, recording her and pushing a camera in her face. She just felt hopeless and overwhelmed.

Trying to De-Escalate

Katie said, “Just come get Autumn. She’s scaring Aurora.” She said maybe Autumn could still come back in the morning for Grampy’s birthday surprise if she calmed down. We said okay and asked for Autumn’s backpack and devices—just in case, and so we could adjust parental controls. Katie resisted at first but eventually agreed.

When Autumn got on the phone, she repeated what Katie told her: “You can’t bring your tablet unless you screenshot your mom that you’ve blocked all your apps.” We told her not to worry about it—that’s a grown-up issue, not something for her to carry.

When Nick arrived to pick her up, Autumn was already sitting outside. Her hands were cold, and she had tears streaming down her face. Katie was just sitting in the car, unfazed. It broke our hearts.

Back in Our Home, But Still Hurting

On the car ride home, Autumn opened up. She was frustrated and sad. She told us how hard it’s been not being able to connect with friends or family—especially when she’s feeling low. She said she apologized to Grampy before leaving, saying she’d try to come back in a few days. Katie made her feel guilty, saying she was being selfish for leaving and missing his birthday.

What hurt the most was what she shared about the days following her hospital visit. Katie wouldn’t let her use glass cups, wouldn’t let her be alone—not even with pencils. Autumn had reached out to her friends, who sympathized and told her they’d felt similarly in the past. That meant so much to her. But when Katie found out, she told Autumn her friends were “trashy” and that they were just joking about mental health.

That crushed her. Autumn really believed her friends were sincere. She needed connection. She needed understanding. And she needed someone to believe her.

Looking Back

I’m sharing this not because I have all the answers, but because I’m still learning and growing. These are the things we’ve lived through. These are the moments that remind us how fragile trust and safety can be—and how much kids internalize when they don’t feel believed, seen, or heard.

If you’ve ever been in a co-parenting situation that feels like walking a tightrope, I see you. If your child is struggling and you’re trying your best to navigate complex emotions and systems—you’re not alone.

Sometimes there are no easy answers. Just listening. Just trying. Just doing what we can with what we have.

When You Feel Like You're Failing… But You're Not

 

When You Feel Like You're Failing… But You're Not

Originally written April 10, 2021 | Reflecting with honesty and heart

Friday afternoon was one of those days that shakes you to your core as a parent.

Nick got a call from the school. The counselor had noticed that Autumn seemed “off.” When they spoke with her, she opened up in a way that both broke our hearts and confirmed our worst fears—she said her mom had been extremely mean and intimidating, making threats and saying things that left her scared and unsure. She wasn’t even allowed to talk to her dad during the school day.

The school did the right thing. They filed a report with DCF. DCF called Nick and said they would open an investigation early the next week.

The Waiting Game… and Worry

Nick tried to reach the girls that night, but no one answered. Not a text. Not a call. Saturday morning, he kept trying until Autumn finally picked up the home phone. Her voice was nervous, shaky. She said she couldn’t talk long.

We didn’t know what to do. All we knew was that Autumn had a soccer game that day in town. She was supposed to sit out due to injuries, but we figured Nick could just be there—to show up, to let her know she wasn’t alone. But she never showed.

The Call That Broke Us

Autumn called around 11:30. She was sobbing. She said her mom drove her past the soccer field, berating her the whole time about her “fake injuries.” She felt so low, so attacked, that she told Nick she didn’t want to live anymore.

That moment—the air left the room. We were terrified. Nick called DCF again. They had him file another 51A and initiated a wellness check immediately. An ambulance and Officer Churchy went to the house. After speaking with Autumn, the EMTs decided she needed to go to Harrington Hospital. Nick followed the ambulance all the way there.

They arrived around 2:00 p.m. We waited. And waited. And by 7:00 p.m., Autumn was still in the ER. Originally, they said she wouldn’t be going home with her mother at all. But after an hour-long conversation with her mom, everything changed—they were considering releasing her back into that same environment.

The Gaps That Hurt the Most

That night on Our Family Wizard, Autumn’s mom messaged saying she hadn’t been giving Autumn her prescribed probiotics or acid reflux medication—Asking for some of merdication when she was alreay in the hospital and acting like it was Nikc job to know she needed them & as f it wasn’t her job to remember, to care, to meet basic needs herself.

Moments like this make you feel completely powerless as a parent—like no matter how hard you're trying, it’s not enough. Like everything you do is the wrong move. But here’s what I want to remind myself (and maybe someone else out there reading this):

You're Not Failing. You're Fighting.

We’re showing up. We're filing reports. We're advocating. We're listening. We are walking in Courage and Love and Truth even when the system doesn’t see it or move fast enough.

It is heartbreaking. It is exhausting. But it is not failure.

In Times Like These, I Lean on the Seven Sacred Teachings:

• Love: Creating a safe place where our kids feel unconditionally held.
• Respect: Honoring their truth—even when it's hard to hear.
• Courage (Mlkikn): Calling DCF again. Following the ambulance. Staying present.
• Honesty: Acknowledging that this hurts. That it's messy. That it’s not easy.
• Wisdom: Knowing when to ask for help, when to take a breath, and when to keep going.
• Humility: Remembering we are not perfect—but we are trying our best.
• Truth: Standing in what’s real. Saying out loud what needs to be said.

We’re not always going to have the answers. But we can keep showing up, every single day, with open hands and open hearts.

And that is how we love our children through the storm.

When Support Feels Like It's Never Enough

When Support Feels Like It's Never Enough

Written from my journal, May 8, 2021

Last night was one of those nights where you realize—again—that love doesn't always come with power. And sometimes, supporting a child you didn’t give birth to still makes your heart ache just the same.

There was a town meeting from 7 to 9 PM. Katie went. Around 8, Autumn called from a friend's house. She said Aurora was asleep. Then my phone died.

When I finally plugged it in, I saw six missed calls. Autumn had tried to reach Nick again and again, and when she couldn’t get through, she called me. She needed someone. She was panicked, scared, overwhelmed.

I handed Nick the phone. She was crying, yelling, trying to explain—trying to be heard. And then, just minutes into the conversation, it turned into something else. Raised voices. Sounds of struggle. A scuffle? The line went tense.

Nick stepped away and called the police at 9:44 PM for a wellness check. I stayed on the line with Autumn until the officer arrived. She said that just knowing someone was on their way helped her calm down. My heart broke a little at how many times kids are made to navigate their trauma alone. How many times they don’t know if anyone will show up.

The officer came. We think it was Officer Cassavant. He asked if she had bruises or cuts. Autumn told him she’d been pushed, that her mom grabbed for her phone, blocked her from leaving—but the officer said there was nothing he could do without “visible signs.” He told her a story about his own dad hitting him with a belt. Then said, “You need to listen to your mother.”

I wanted to scream.

Later that night, Autumn called again. Her phone had been taken. Her uncle Jason showed up—probably to keep things calm. She seemed steadier, but you could hear it in her voice. That fragile, careful peace.

The next morning, she called Nick again, asking to come over. Her words were sharp and heartbreaking: “She disowned me.” She said it more than once. That she had been told she wasn’t wanted. She needed out.

Nick picked her up right away.

Katie, still focused on things like a bag of chips or an empty energy drink can in the car, barely acknowledged the emotional weight of what was happening. But Autumn couldn’t stop talking about what had happened. Her legs were shaking. Her stomach hurt. She was trying so hard to stay composed, but the trauma was raw.

I suggested she use her calming app. It helped. A little.

She didn’t want to go to her soccer game. She said, “I just experienced the most traumatic event in months.” I tried to downplay it, not out of disregard, but out of fear. Fear that if I let myself agree, if I leaned into her pain too far, I’d unravel too.

Eventually, she decided to go. She called her friend—the coach’s daughter—and asked for a ride. The spark in her voice when she made that choice… it was beautiful. She got ready. She left with a smile. She found her own way back to herself.

But I couldn’t help but feel the weight. Of how hard it is to love someone deeply and know that love isn’t enough to shield them. That you're not their legal parent. That you’re just… doing your best. And praying it's enough.

We can’t always protect the children we love. But we can show up. We can answer the phone. We can be the calm voice when everything else feels like chaos.

And sometimes, that’s the only power we have.

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Looking back, as I move these journal entries from my WordPress to Blogger, I still never will understand why nobody helped sooner.

Wela’lioq na teliula’lin,
—Tashena