Wildflower Pediatric Psychology

Elementary 

I was a child with a busy brain and big imagination. I bounced to the beat of my own drum, and it was great. Then, Kindergarten happened, and the need to assimilate hit hard and fast. I was a foot taller than everyone else, with big dark curly hair, and the only Jewish kid I knew. All that might have been fine, except that I also felt, acted, and learned differently too. 

I was shy and had pretty intense separation anxiety. On that first day of Kindergarten, the last thing I wanted was more eyes on me, but as I tried to conceal my tears, my kind, grandmotherly teacher pulled all 4 feet of me right onto her lap and bounced big ‘ol me, while the rest of the class sat on the carpet in circle time. Yep, I was different alright - and it wasn’t a good thing. 

As time went on, I learned to relax some in school, and my mind would often drift (or dart) elsewhere. Then, I would find myself jolting out of a daydream and into panic, as I watched the other children scurry away to the next activity, knowing where to go, what to do, and getting to work. My eyes wide and heart racing, I’d quickly scan the other kids and the room around me, trying to figure out how to pretend like I knew what I was supposed to do. 

Over the next couple years, it became increasingly apparent that I couldn’t read, despite my best efforts to mask this. My loving mom kicked into high gear to do night and weekend school with me, on top of all the rest, as she figured out how to teach a child to read. 

I was learning that I had to try harder - to figure out how to push through whatever this mysterious, bad thing was that made me different. I had to catch up, fast, and without attracting too much attention. I worked 10 times harder than everyone else (and my mom did too) as I painstakingly caught up. I learned intensive study habits, and, once my reading was on track, I was able to figure out how to make and keep good grades. This helped everyone relax - everyone, except for me. 

Teen turbulence

By adolescence, the strategies I had learned to ‘push through’ had become more intense and exhausting. And, for the first time, my social world was even more important than academics. Over time, I had increasingly come to believe that there was just something broken in me. Having never really learned good coping strategies, I tried out some unhealthy strategies, while pushing myself to the limit in school by day, and finding comfort in other teens who (like me) also felt broken in some way, by night. I still didn’t know what it was (and neither did the grownups), but the cracks were showing. 

Around this time, a grownup close to me explained to another that I was, “a lost cause.” I had become a ‘bad kid.’ (Spoiler alert – there is no such thing!) Then, 10 days before high school graduation, I met the school principal for the first time when he called me down to his office. During that brief meeting, he was probably the first and last to actually say, “You need help.” But he never intended to get me that help; instead, he kicked me out of school that day. The message I received was something like: ‘Kids like you, who are different and who need help, don’t belong here.’ 

The light at the end of the tunnel 

Fortunately, I had been accepted into college, and it was way easier to be different in college. I was in a new place, surrounded by new and diverse people, all of us exploring new ideas and ways of seeing things. There were good doctors there too, and one of them explained that I wasn’t actually broken, but that I just had ADHD, and anxiety too (largely in response to the stress of the unidentified, untreated ADHD). Suddenly, my challenges weren’t so mysterious any more. I was able to choose my own supports, the ones that empowered me rather than overwhelmed and concealed me. 

And, in college, I was lucky enough to find the coolest subject of all - The science of human behavior. I was amazed and inspired that, through science, we can understand how people learn and why they (we) behave the way we do. Best of all, they told me that this science can be help people live happier, healthier lives. 

Naturally, I had some skepticism (I mean - it sure wasn’t that easy for me!), so I had to ‘see it to believe it’. I accompanied my professor on a school consultation for a middle schooler with autism, who was described as “refusing to do anything” and highly aggressive when anyone tried to encourage him. 

My professor and I walked into the classroom to find the boy seated at his desk, head down, and hair spread around him, his face totally obscured. His teachers were as far away from him as they could be. When we asked them what the boy liked, they replied, “He just likes to sit there and do nothing.” They had given up on him. It felt… familiar. But this time, I was the grownup, and I was learning how to actually help.

I watched as my professor approached the student with genuine respect and kindness. Then, he pulled a coin from his pocket and spun it, sending it twirling and shimmering in the student’s line of sight. The boy lifted his head, and (to the teachers’ shock) he smiled. I then watched as my professor conducted a brief, naturalistic, empirically validated preference assessment, as well as some communication teaching. By the end of the visit, the student who had been described as only able to “sit and do nothing,” was playing chase with us on the playground. He was communicating for what he wanted and reveling in some much needed play. 

This was the ‘moment’ for me, when I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to get the highest level of training possible, to acquire all the knowledge and skills I could, so that I would be able to see a path forward for any child who needed me, no matter how they came in for help. 

Now

Over the last 17 years,  my busy and creative brain has enabled me to gain expertise that goes both wide and deep. I have so much knowledge now to give away, that I don’t want to be constrained to providing only a subset of my skills, with limited opportunity for individualization,  as can be the expectation when working within larger institutions. 

Wildflower Pediatric Psychology is my way to share all of my expertise in order to help children and those who love them, directly, responsively, flexibly, and with the highest quality care. 

• Through my diagnostic service, I help children and families understand what makes them unique, and how those things bring both challenges and strengths. I can also help advocate for them, through my detailed and individualized reports and consultations, such that teachers and others can best understand and support the child too.

• Through my functional behavior assessment service, I use the science of human behavior to uncover and understand the (usually very reasonable, and not actually scary) reasons for the behavioral/emotional challenges. Empowered with that information, we can collaboratively figure out how to help the child get what they need, without having to resort to extreme and exhausting behaviors. 

• Through behavior intervention support and direct therapy services, I can ‘be there’ with the child, family, and others, as they (we) work together to design the best supports for that child - supports that do not conceal or disable, but instead empower them to live happier, healthier lives.

• Last but not least, my Behavioral Pediatrics service is about prevention, early identification, and timely support for children and families. In addition to being a child psychologist, I am also a parent (X2), and I personally know how often the questions come up - Is this normal? Am I doing this right? Is he ok… really?  Through Behavioral Pediatrics, I can be there for families, so that they don’t have to rely on google and the common ‘wisdom’ of past generations. This way I can share the science directly, in equal parts with my compassionate support, to minimize suffering and promote wellness, proactively. 

I am so excited to meet you and to support your child to “blossom naturally!”