By Emanuel Maxim

There was a time when my daughter came home from school carrying emotions far heavier than her backpack.

She was only 10, but already had a strong sense of who she was. She cared deeply about fairness, about what felt right and true. She held clear boundaries, and she wasn’t willing to bend them just to fit in. That strength, the kind I admire most, sometimes put her at odds with a group of girls who played by different rules. Where fitting in mattered more, she stood firm. And that often left her feeling lonely, misunderstood, and overwhelmed.

Some afternoons, she would come through the door in tears. Other days, she would be quiet, her energy turned inward, and some days she would crawl under the covers to silence her tears. I could see the weight settling into her body – tense shoulders, shallow breathing, that distant look in her eyes that said everything felt like too much.

I wanted to fix it for her. But of course, that’s not how it works.

What we could do was walk beside her and offer small, steady tools to help her find her way back to balance.

We started with something simple: breathing.

Not as a cure for anything, but as a way to come home to herself when emotions swelled too big to manage.

We practiced box breathing together – breathing in for four seconds, holding for four, breathing out for four, holding again for four. We would sit at the kitchen table or lie on the floor, hands on our bellies, doing it slowly. Sometimes we would just take ten deep breaths before talking about things. Nothing fancy. Just air moving in and out, reminding the nervous system that it was safe to slow down.

Over time, I watched her begin to use it on her own. She would pause mid-story and say, “I need a breath first.” Or she’d excuse herself to her room to take a few quiet minutes when the emotions became too tangled. “Dad, I need to go self-regulate” – yes, a 10-year-old says that.

Breathing became her anchor.

But it wasn’t the only piece.

We spoke often about emotions, mostly during our long drives or sitting in Starbucks while her brother trained, naming them, sharing them, letting them exist instead of pushing them down. We taught her that strength isn’t pretending to be fine. Strength is allowing yourself to be vulnerable. It’s saying, “I’m hurt,” or “I’m angry,” or “I feel alone,” and trusting that those feelings don’t make you weak but rather they make you human.

We encouraged her to talk to people she trusted. To say things out loud instead of stuffing them down. To cry if she needed to. To laugh when joy came back. Nothing had to be hidden.

And we reminded her to listen to her body.

We talked about how emotions don’t live only in our heads; they settle in the body too. Tight chests. Quivering hands. Heavy stomachs. When she told us, “I don’t feel good,” we helped her ask: Where do I feel this? What does my body need right now?

Sometimes the answer was simple: a walk down the street, some time alone with headphones in, just moving her body and letting the thoughts drift. Sometimes it was curling up with our Penny, the cockapoo. Sometimes it was writing in her notebook or drawing what she didn’t yet have words for. She loves to be creative – she learned that it’s her safest way to regulate.

We taught her to stay curious about her emotions rather than fighting them. To notice them without needing to judge or change them right away. And always, always to stay true to who she is – to her beliefs, her values, her natural kindness and justice-loving heart – even when that path feels harder.

What I learned through coming alongside her, again and again, is that equilibrium doesn’t come from one perfect routine, or a checklist of practices done flawlessly each day. It grows from gentle integration.

Breathing for the body.
Sharing for the emotions.
Curiosity for the mind.
Movement for release.
Rest for restoration.

Small things, done consistently, weaving together quietly over time, like tending a garden a little each day rather than trying to make it bloom all at once.

Some days, balance looked like rest – early bedtime, hot chocolate, slow evenings.
Other days, it was connection – calling a friend, talking things through, hugging tightly.
Some days, it was creativity – drawing, playing her piano, singing or dancing in her room.
And some days, it was simply breath – ten slow breaths when everything felt overwhelming.

There was no single formula, only listening to what the moment was asking for.

Watching my daughter learn these tools reminded me that self-care isn’t selfish. It’s necessary. It’s how we teach ourselves and our children that their wellbeing matters, not just when life is calm, but especially when it feels messy and uncertain.

Equilibrium isn’t about being unaffected by life.

It’s about having small, kind ways to meet it.

And in our home, it still often starts with something as simple as a pause…and one gentle, steady breath.