A Sukkot conversation reminded me that real change happens when we choose connection over control—when we tend to the relationship itself, rather than push from fear. With connection as our anchor, gentle change becomes possible—together.

One of my core principles as a mom and sleep coach is simple: connection first, clarity second. It sounds lovely in theory. The test is when life gets real.

During Sukkot, our family sat together in the sukkah, talking about parenting through tough moments. My son-in-law asked, “What would you do if your child made a truly scary choice—something serious?” My answer rose up without effort: I would put the focus on strengthening our connection. Not with speeches, not with threats (which I know don’t work—that’s how I was parented as a teenager), but by coming alongside—not at. With a secure relationship, our children are less likely to seek connection in all the wrong places.

As the night quieted, I thought about how connection changes shape as our kids grow.

There was a season when one of my children would drop onto the couch after school and melt into me. We’d talk, linger, breathe the same air. It was so special. Then, almost overnight, that shifted. He started asking, in a new, low voice, “Mom, can you take me to the bike park?”

At first, it stung. No more heart-to-hearts? No more hugs on the couch? For a few days, I felt confused—how was I supposed to make emotional deposits now?

And then I realized: connection hadn’t disappeared—it just needed to shift. It would live in the fifteen-minute car ride: windows cracked, a light joke, one or two real questions. Short. Repeatable. New. Ours. Still connection—just different.

That memory followed me into real life after the holiday meals, when another tender spot surfaced at home. One of my children had drifted toward lots of ultra-processed snacks and big portions of not-so-healthy food. The more I commented—“maybe not another,” “try chewing more,” “choose something fresher”—the more distance I felt. My well-meant words landed as judgment. He began tucking his choices out of view. That’s what fear and fixing do: they make us hide.

Back in the sukkah, I had said connection first. Now I needed to live it—around food and movement too, not just bedtime and routines.

So during our bedtime wind-down, I started with me.

“After all these holidays,” I told him, “my body feels off. I haven’t moved enough, and I don’t feel great. I want to start having an early dinner and then go for a walk in the late afternoons. I’d love a partner. How about you—how do you feel?”

He paused, then said, “Me too, Mom. I feel yucky.”

I asked if he’d be my partner. He hesitated, then agreed. We made a small plan: he’d scooter while I walked briskly behind; I’d set out colorful, fresh foods at every meal; we’d close the kitchen earlier. At bedtime, we’d each take a turn—What felt good today? What are we proud of? What didn’t feel so good? We shared, we laughed, and we planned our next walks and meals together. I promised to fuel this new dynamic, trusting that connection would inspire the shift. I’d come alongside and celebrate small wins. Instead of fixating on what I didn’t want, I chose to focus on what I did—the bond, the fun, the togetherness. I would lead by example, and invite him with connection—not control.

Two weeks in, I’m in awe. He asks when we’re going, eats the chopped veggies—no commentary needed—and glances back as he scooters; I cheer. Some days, old habits nudge back in; we stay steady. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s fueling the relationship, meeting his needs, and staying focused on what we’re building.

Sitting in the sukkah, I answered a hard question with a simple sentence. Living it looks like this: letting connection be the anchor—through bike parks and bedtime, through feasts and resets, through seasons when closeness looks different but is still close.

If you’re in a tender place at home—bedtime, mealtime, screens—maybe start here:

Say one true thing about you: “My body feels off; I’m going for a walk.”

Invite partnership: “Want to join me and become my partner?”

Create a micro-ritual: the same small touchpoint each day (car chat, walk, short bedtime check-in).

Not because it prevents every storm, but because it keeps you holding on to each other during the storm. And in that holding, our child feels connected and change finds room to grow.

Connection first. Clarity second. Always in that order.

P.S. I share a new, calming, step-by-step sleep video every week. Subscribe on YouTube  so you don’t miss the next one.