Parenting in the Age of Overwhelm: Choosing Peace in a World on Fire

Clara
Oct 7
5 min read

There are mornings when I open my phone and feel my whole body tighten — as if the world’s heaviness presses right into my chest. The headlines, the cruelty, the loss… it’s a lot. It’s too much, sometimes.

And yet, as a parent, I still have to make breakfast. I still have to tie tiny shoes, hold space for big feelings, and show up ... from some sense of steadiness inside rather than panic and despair.

Some days, that steadiness feels out of reach.

A shimmering heart-shaped ornament hangs gracefully from the lush green branches, reflecting the light.

The Noise and the Choice

Because of my husband’s work, he needs to stay connected to the news, but early on we made an intentional choice: no TV provider in our home.

We still care deeply about what’s happening in the world, but we choose how and when to engage with it.

If something feels important to understand, we’ll read a few reliable articles, talk about it, feel our feelings about it… and then we pause.

Because I’ve noticed what happens in my body when I consume too much information — the tightness in my stomach, the racing heart, the sense of helplessness that creeps in. My nervous system floods, and before I know it, I’m more reactive with my kids, more distracted, less present.

That’s not the world I want to model for them.

The Quiet Conflict Inside

There’s still a part of me that whispers, You should be doing more.

You should post about what’s happening.

You should join that movement.

You should be louder.

And sometimes that voice has a point — I care deeply about social justice, about equality, about humanity, about climate change. I want my children to grow up knowing that silence in the face of suffering is not neutrality.

But another part of me knows that my loudest contribution might not be online or in the streets ... it might be in the way I raise them. In how I respond to their anger, in how I hold their grief, in how I teach them that kindness and boundaries can coexist.

That peace isn’t passivity, it’s presence.

Parenting as Activism

When I choose connection over control, when I breathe instead of react, when I repair after I rupture ... I’m teaching my children something radical about power.

I’m teaching them that real change begins in the smallest unit of society: the family.

That empathy is not weakness. That every person deserves dignity. That we can disagree and still stay in relationship. That care for ourselves and care for the world are not opposites, they are the same river, flowing from the same source.

And that source is our nervous system.

If I my nerovous system is dysregulated, angry, or hopeless, I cannot offer steadyness or hope to my children. If I am overextended in my activism and undernourished in my soul, I cannot sustain what truly matters.

So I check in with myself often:

Am I resourced enough to engage right now?

Is my action coming from fear, or from love?

Am I modeling the kind of world I want them to inherit ... one where people are grounded, thoughtful, compassionate, and connected?

That, I think, is the work.

A Practice for Holding Both

Here’s a small practice I’ve been returning to when the world feels both too heavy and too beautiful all at once.

When everything feels uncertain, our bodies long for something familiar: a moment of warmth, connection, or stability.

So let’s begin there.

Somatic Micro-Practice: Holding the Both

(Inspired by Dr. Rick Hanson’s HEAL practice — Have it, Enrich it, Absorb it, Link it — from Positive Neuroplasticity.)

Sit or stand somewhere comfortable. Place one hand on your heart, one on your belly.
First, bring to mind something that feels good or steady in your life right now: maybe your child’s laughter, sunlight on your face, a recent kindness, or the way your pet curls up beside you.
Let yourself really have the experience. Sense it in your body. What’s happening inside as you remember this? Where do you feel it? Warmth? Softening? Expansion?
Allow it to grow. Take a slow breath in and imagine this feeling expanding through your chest, your shoulders, down your arms, into your belly and legs. Let it infuse every cell — as if your whole body is saying, yes, this is safe enough, this is comfortable.
Soak it in. Stay here for a few breaths longer than you think you need to. Feel the nourishment of this moment. This is your resource.
From this grounded, filled-up place, gently bring to mind something in the world that feels heavy, something that stirs your heart but doesn’t overwhelm it. (Aim for a “five” on a scale of one to ten; we’re not diving into trauma, just touching what’s real.)
Notice where you feel this heaviness in your body. Let yourself acknowledge it without collapsing into it. You might whisper internally, Yes, this too lives in me.
Now softly pendulate, move, between the two sensations: the comfort and the concern, the resource and the ache. Feel how your body can hold both — the beauty and the pain — without shutting down.
Breathe gently and notice how your system naturally finds its rhythm between them.

This gentle movement, between the sorrow and the softness, helps our nervous system stay open without burning out.

It teaches us that we can care deeply and stay grounded.

That we can feel heartbreak and hope in the same breath.

It’s how we stay human in an inhumane time.

And when that part of you that wants to do something awakens ... the part that burns for justice, that refuses to look away ... see if you can meet it from this resourced, full-bodied state.

From here, choice becomes clearer:

Maybe you choose to donate to a cause you care about.
Maybe you volunteer your time or join a local group that aligns with your values.
Maybe you invite your kids, if they’re old enough, into one small act of service or kindness, letting them feel that change doesn’t always require loudness, just love in motion.

This way, our action doesn’t come from urgency or depletion, but from steadiness and care.

We’re teaching our children, and reminding ourselves, that peace and participation can coexist.

The Small Revolution

I remind myself that raising children who can feel, reflect, care, and stay grounded is world change.

It’s slower, quieter, maybe less visible than the movements we see on screens ... but it’s every bit as essential.

Because if we can raise a generation who believes in cooperation over competition, empathy over ego, belonging over division ... then maybe that’s how the world begins to heal.

One family.

One nervous system.

One steady, loving breath at a time.

Closing Reflection

Maybe our call right now isn’t to hold everything, but to hold what’s ours ... with care.

That’s where peace begins.

And that’s where, I believe, real change takes root.

Written by Clara Roulev — Certified Peaceful Parenting and Mind-Body Coach, Playful Parenting Leader, and Registered Yoga Teacher. Clara is the founder of Share Peace Parenting, where she helps parents regulate their nervous systems, repair generational patterns, and raise emotionally resilient children through connection, compassion, and play.