Life has been a little upside down lately.
Someone in the family had knee surgery, and suddenly the everyday rhythm many counted on shifted. Schedules changed. Roles changed. And me, Grandma had new duties. I was so glad I can be able to help. But as we know, for many when there is change, it is sometimes difficult. I had a “grandma job” Get my grandson to school each morning.
One day recently, we were going through his backpack together. Tucked between the folders was a paper about the Zones of Regulation.
I know this tool well. I've used it for years. I've introduced it to more people than I can count.
So I asked him, “Where are you on the chart?”
He got quiet. Then he told me.
Yellow. Maybe even a little red.
He'd been worrying about his mom. About all the changes. About how he was having "lots of feelings".
Later, as we walked, I asked him the question I've asked so many others:
“What helps you get back to green?”
He didn't hesitate.
Deep breaths.
And his Legos. All of them. Designing. Building. Creating.
He knew exactly what he needed.
And that's when it hit me.
Did I?
Because here's the truth.
My last few days have been a jumble.
I got angry at my computer. How dare it not do what I wanted?
I lost my keys. Then my purse. I found them later; in places I never put them.
My mind felt tangled. Thoughts and emotions piled on top of each other, too knotted to sort out.
And underneath it all, a quieter ache.
Not feeling noticed.
I know I can't control who reads my posts. Who comments. Who responds. I know that.
But knowing it didn't stop the feeling.
Dejected.
Defeated.
Stupid.
Ready to give up.
Yellow. Red. Maybe both at once.
And I hadn't reached for a single tool.
Me. The one who hands out the chart. The one who asks, “What helps you get back to green?”
I'd forgotten to ask myself.
So I asked.
What helps me get back to green?
Quiet space.
Creating something with my hands.
And most of all, walking.
There's a trail right behind the apartment. It's been my go-to for a long time. Even through these jumbled days, I've kept walking it.
Then, the other day, when I was especially flustered, I headed out the door and found the trail closed for an event.
My tool. My go-to. Unavailable.
And honestly? It took me a while to figure out what to do next.
Finally, I just walked the sidewalk instead.
It was noisier. Different. Not what I'd planned.
But it worked.
I think I may have enjoyed it even more. No dodging bikes. No weaving around runners. Just me, my feet, and my breath, finding my way back.
Here's what I'm learning:
Having a tool matters.
Having a backup matters too.
And sometimes the pivot turns out to be its own small gift.
My grandson builds with Legos. I build with my hands.
He takes deep breaths. I take long walks.
Different tools. Same goal.
Back to green.
Now, a word for you, caregiver.
You are the one who notices.
You notice when the person you support is getting restless. When their voice changes. When they need a break before they know it themselves.
You hand out the tools. The fidget. The quiet corner. The deep breath. The walk.
But who is noticing you?
Here's the thing. The people we support are watching us. They learn regulation from us, not just from our words, but from what we do when we're in yellow. When we're in red.
Taking care of your own zones isn't selfish.
It's modeling.
It's part of the work.
So today, I'm asking you to do three small things:
Name your zone. Right now, as you read this. Green? Yellow? Red? No judgment. Just notice.
Name your tools. What brings you back to green? Write down two or three. Put them somewhere you'll see them on the hard days.
Name your backup. Because some days the trail is closed. What will you reach for then?
And then I'd love for you to share.
Tell me in the comments: What's one tool that brings you back to green?
Your answer might be exactly what another caregiver needs to read today.
We're all building our toolboxes. Let's build them together.
Let's keep creating.
— Pam