Not every intervention may work with some kids at work.

Today I dealt with a client who is 12 year's old with ADHD and other diagnosis. She gets physically aggressive towards staff and she would hurt them. I was one of her favorite staff and she would never act up the days I'm working. But today was different, she had attacked me for blocking from running away as one of the door was disengaged from mag lock. I asked her why she had done that, she said that she's been doing this for a while and she gets pleasure by attacking staff.

The OARS framework—Open-Ended Questions, Affirmations, Reflective Statements, and Summarization—enhances meaningful dialogue. Asking open-ended questions encourages clients to share freely, while affirmations recognize their strengths. Reflective statements deepen understanding, and summarization ensures clarity and direction.

Focusing techniques include clear direction, agenda mapping for multiple concerns, and deeper engagement when clients lack focus. Evoking change talk involves using strategies like importance rulers, querying extremes, and exploring past and future perspectives. Sustain talk and discord require affirming autonomy, reframing, and shifting focus to solutions.

A case study on Martha, struggling with hoarding and housing insecurity, highlighted MI's application. Engaging her with open-ended questions, recognizing her ambivalence, and evoking change talk would support her in finding solutions. Moving forward, I aim to improve reflective listening, evoke change talk effectively, and avoid engagement traps. MI reinforces the power of a client-centered, empathetic approach to fostering change.

There was once a painter who lived beside a restless river. Each morning, she would set up her easel, only to watch the river steal her colors—blues bleeding into the current, reds swallowed by the tide. Frustrated, she tried to control it, placing stones to redirect the flow, only to see the water slip through every gap. One day, exhausted, she simply sat and watched.

For the first time, she noticed the river’s rhythm, its rise and fall, its ability to carry away the old and bring in the new. Inspired, she dipped her brush into its reflection and painted—not to fight, but to flow.

In that moment, she realized: emotions, like rivers, are not meant to be dammed, only understood.

I sat by the window, watching the rain dance against the glass. The world outside blurred into streaks of silver, but inside, everything was still. My mind, usually a relentless storm of thoughts, quieted as I focused on my breath.

Inhale. Four counts. Hold. Four counts. Exhale. Eight counts.

The warmth of my tea cup pressed against my palms, grounding me. I traced the rim absentmindedly, letting my fingers absorb the texture, the moment, the now.

For the first time in days, I wasn’t chasing thoughts or running from feelings. I was simply here—existing, breathing, being. And that was enough.

This morning, I caught myself in the middle of a thought storm. The usual culprits—doubt, worry, and that nagging feeling of "not enough." I was about to label the entire day as a failure before it even began.

But today, I decided to pause. Instead of letting my automatic thoughts spiral unchecked, I challenged them. "What evidence do I have that today will be a disaster?" I asked myself. The answer? None. Just a habit of predicting the worst.

I remembered something from my recent readings: cognitive distortions are like funhouse mirrors—distorting reality, exaggerating flaws. So, I tried reframing my thoughts.

Instead of "I'm going to fail at this," I told myself, "I may struggle, but that doesn’t mean I won’t succeed."

Instead of "No one cares," I thought, "There are people who do care, I just need to reach out."

It wasn’t an instant fix. But as I tested these new thoughts throughout the day, I noticed a shift. A small but powerful one. Like Ben in his story, I took action, I texted a friend, I focused on progress rather than perfection.

And as the day ended, I realized something: Change doesn’t come from wishing thoughts away. It comes from facing them, questioning them, and daring to rewrite the narrative.

Tomorrow, I’ll do it again.

4o

One aspect that stood out was defusion—the idea of stepping back from thoughts instead of being controlled by them. It reminds me of how often I get caught up in overthinking. Instead of believing every negative thought, I can recognize it as just a passing mental event.

Another powerful takeaway was committed action—acting in ways that align with my values, even when faced with discomfort. This made me think about my goals, especially exercise and reducing screen time. Instead of waiting to "feel like it," I should focus on doing what matters, despite distractions or laziness.

Overall, ACT offers a fresh way to approach life. By being present, accepting difficult emotions, and committing to values-driven actions, I can cultivate a richer and more meaningful life.

Reflection Question: What are my core values, and how can I live by them more intentionally?

4o

In a world of thoughts that rise and fall,
I learn to stand, through it all.
ACT says, be present, hold things light,
Let thoughts drift past, like birds in flight.

Emotions swell, a thunder’s beat,
DBT guides my trembling feet.
You can feel it all, and still stay strong—
You’re not your pain; you still belong.

A compass of values in my hand,
I walk with choice across the sand.
I may not change the winds that blow,
But I can choose which way to go.

One mindful breath, a softened view,
Accept what is, and start anew.
Radical peace, though tears may fall—
I’m building a life, in spite of it all.

Today I spent some quiet moments thinking about the idea of "free space" in the mind. It's not something we usually notice—we’re so used to our thoughts constantly running, overlapping, and echoing each other. But in a moment of mindfulness, I caught a glimpse of what that space feels like. It’s the pause between thoughts, the breath before a reaction, the stillness that doesn’t need to be filled.

That free space felt expansive, like a quiet room with open windows. It wasn’t empty in a lonely way—it was clear, uncluttered, peaceful. I realized how rarely I allow that space to exist. Most of the time, I rush to fill it with distractions, plans, judgments, or noise. But today I let it be. And in doing so, I felt more connected to myself and the present moment than I have in a while.

Mindfulness isn’t about pushing thoughts away—it’s about allowing that mental room to breathe, to just be. I want to return to that space more often, even if just for a few minutes. Because sometimes, it’s in the quiet that I hear myself most clearly.

Telling My Story:
Lately, I’ve been feeling like I always mess things up—relationships, work, even my personal goals. I hear this voice in my head saying, “You’re not good enough,” and I often accept it as truth. This feels like a problem-saturated story I’ve been living with for years.

Externalizing the Problem:
Today, I tried something new—I gave that inner critic a name: “The Doubter.” Instead of saying I am the problem, I’m seeing The Doubter as something outside of me that I’ve had a relationship with. The Doubter isn’t me—it’s something I’ve been dealing with.

Deconstructing the Problem:
I thought about where The Doubter might have come from. It reminded me of how in school, a teacher once told me I wasn’t “leadership material” after one failed group project. That moment stuck with me, and I think I’ve carried it ever since. But now I can see—it was just one moment, not the whole truth.

Unique Outcomes:
There are times I’ve stood up to The Doubter. Like when I applied for a new role even though I was scared. I didn’t get the job, but I got an interview, and that took guts. That’s not something The Doubter would have predicted. That’s me, showing resilience.

Re-authoring My Narrative:
I’m not a person who always messes things up. I’m someone who’s been navigating life with The Doubter nearby—and sometimes, I still take brave steps forward. Maybe my new story can be about someone who keeps going, even when it’s hard.

Looking Ahead:
Suppose I were to treat myself with the same compassion I offer my friends. What would change? What might life look like if I believed I am enough, just as I am?

There’s a strange peace that comes with saying, “This is where I am, and this is enough for today.” Whether I’m in a season of clarity or confusion, I’m learning to accept that faith doesn’t always come with answers. Sometimes, it’s just choosing to stand still in the storm, believing that it will pass.

I don’t have to like everything that happens. I don’t have to understand it. But I can accept that I’m being held through it all. And maybe that’s where the real faith begins not in the knowing, but in the letting go.

I didn't do much, but everything felt like too much. I kept waiting for something to shake me out of it, but nothing came. Just silence and the same loop of thoughts.

Still, I’m here. That has to count for something.

There’s something deeply human in it. The idea that people already carry the answers within them, they just need someone to help untangle the mess. It made me think about how often we try to fix others—or even ourselves—by force, instead of understanding.

I wonder what would happen if I spoke to myself the same way. With curiosity. With compassion. With patience. Maybe then change wouldn’t feel so far away.

The sky forgets the sun today,
A muted hush, in shades of grey.
Raindrops trace the window’s face,
Time slows in this quiet space.

The world feels heavy, slow to rise,
No birds, no songs, just softened skies.
And yet—beneath this sullen hue,
A breath, a pause, a moment true.

No need to fix, no need to run,
Just sit beneath the cloud-hung sun.
Feel the weight, the chill, the ache,
Let every feeling softly wake.

The tea is warm, my hands are still,
The silence bends around my will.
And in this gloom, I start to see—
Even sadness lets me be.

Mindfulness, a gentle guest,
Sits beside me as I rest.
Not to cheer or change the day,
Just to walk with me, this way.

She rolled her eyes at first. What could painting do that talking couldn’t? But something inside her exhausted and aching agreed to try.

At first, it was just colors. Angry reds, anxious blacks, the grey of grief she couldn’t name. Her hand moved without thought, like her body remembered what her voice forgot. With every stroke, something released. Not gone, but loosened. Lighter.

Week after week, her paintings told the story she was too afraid to tell aloud. One day, a streak of yellow appeared just a sliver. Her therapist noticed it, didn’t name it, just nodded. Maya almost smiled.

She still didn’t talk much. But the silence no longer felt so loud. On that canvas, she found herself messy, real, and healing.

When he got angry, a fire-breathing dragon would stomp through his room, setting his socks on fire (literally). When he was sad, a giant blue whale would flop onto his bed and sigh for hours. And when he was excited? A kangaroo with a kazoo would bounce off the walls, playing circus music.

His parents didn’t know what to do. His teacher just sent notes home. So Max went to see Ms. Luna, the school counselor.

She gave him a journal, a squishy ball, and one strange piece of advice:
"Learn to be the zookeeper."

At first, Max didn’t get it. But the next time the dragon roared, he tried something new he took a deep breath, counted to ten, and drew a picture of the dragon instead of throwing his math book. The dragon still huffed, but it didn’t burn anything. Progress.

When the whale came, Max wrapped himself in a blanket, named the whale “Blubby,” and let himself cry for a bit. Then he listened to music and drew waves until the whale swam away.

Bit by bit, Max got better at noticing the animals before they took over. He learned tricks to calm them down breathing, talking, drawing, moving.

Now, Max is the best zookeeper in town. His room is still a little wild sometimes, but it’s his zoo, and he’s in charge.

One morning, her coffee spilled all over her shirt before a meeting, and something in her just... stopped. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, staring at the dark stain spreading across her blouse. Then, for the first time in a long time, she took a breath not the usual shallow kind, but a full one, deep and slow.

That breath was the beginning.

She started practicing mindfulness not perfectly, not even every day but enough. Enough to notice how warm the sun felt on her skin during walks. How the silence between words held just as much meaning. How emotions weren’t enemies to fight but waves to ride.

One day, in the middle of washing dishes, she caught herself smiling. For no reason. Just... present. Just okay.

From mindfulness, she learned one simple, powerful thing:
You don’t have to react right away. You can pause. You can breathe. You can choose.

It breaks in silence, mends in time,
It whispers truths without a rhyme.
It aches for things we let slip by,
And swells with joy we can't deny.

So tender, fierce, and full of grace—
The heart remembers every face.
And even when we feel alone,
It keeps a light on, guiding home.