For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet, aching question: Why didn’t anyone really see me? I wasn’t the silent, easy child that emotional neglect is often associated with. I was vocal. I felt everything. I cried out for love, for comfort, for someone to come and say, “I’m
If I could go back and sit beside the younger me—the me surrounded by toys, tantrums, sleepless nights, and endless “why” questions—I think I’d hold her hand and tell her a few things. I’d tell her she’s doing better than she thinks. I’d tell her that the messy house doesn’t
I wasn’t raised to question things. I was raised to say yes. To keep the peace. To be polite even when I felt uncomfortable. To push down my intuition if it risked rocking the boat. I was taught — like so many of us — to go along with the
As I sit down to write my very first blog post for Aimee Rose Little Readers, I keep coming back to one thing — the foundation. The reason this space even exists. It’s not just about writing sweet bedtime stories. It’s not about the aesthetics or the rhymes or the
We’ve all had those moments. Your child is whining, refusing to listen, shouting, throwing toys — and before you know it, something rises up in you. You react sharply, maybe more than you meant to, and then comes the wave of guilt. It’s easy to pin it all on the
As I sit down to write my very first blog post for Aimee Rose Little Readers, I keep coming back to one thing — the foundation. The reason this space even exists. It’s not just about writing sweet bedtime stories. It’s not about the aesthetics or the rhymes or the