Joseph Sarosy

07/31/2026

Cold alpine lake. Camping with friends in Colorado 🙂. These photos are hilarious and sweet. Had so much fun ❤️

07/23/2026

07/23/2026

I think that’s fun 🥰 We live in such a beautiful place and I’m so grateful 🥲

07/15/2026

Agnes and I put on our snowsuits, laced up our boots, and stepped outside. The snow had finally stopped. The earth was soft and white. Above, amongst thick gray clouds, mingled small drifts of feathery white clouds that occasionally gave way to patches of blue. Tucked behind dense clouds in the west, the sun shed an ambient light over everything, the fresh white snow, making the transition from day to evening barely noticeable. We grabbed the sled, a blue plastic toboggan, and walked to the backside of the property, our breath escaping in plumes of smoke.

We passed the chickens, and then Eric, who was clearing the snow off his car. We stopped to say a quick hello and then continued, past the workshop, past the clothesline that held tiny strands of snow along its wires, past the cracked cistern and abandoned truck. The snow crumbled softly underfoot, and the nylon sleeves of our snowsuits zipped keenly.

We walked past piles of scrap wood and wire fencing, broken windows and cement mixers, old rubber tires; the sort of miscellany that one becomes accustomed to in New Mexico. Everything was covered in clean, white snow.

Finally, just beyond the woodshed, we left the crumpled path and leaned into the thick, untrammeled snow. In summer, this hillside was a utopia of sage, purple aster, sweet clover and juniper. Now it was all white. We stepped carefully to avoid tripping over sagebrush, and plowed brusquely through husks of clover and aster, whose skeletal frames made intricate patterns on which the snow clung like lattice.

“Dada, can I ride in the sled now?” Agnes asked. It was hard work climbing this hill. The hidden nooks and tree boughs, which in the summer were magical groves, now formed a field of obstacles. And the acequia, which winds down the hill to deliver water from the river, was covered in snow. We had to be careful not to trip and fall. “No pup,” I said, “I can’t carry you up this hill. You can ride once we get to the top.” A brief pause, “I can hold your hand though.” “Okay,” she said, reaching up with her pink mitten, plowing through drifts up to her knees.

We scooted under a juniper branch, heavy with snow, and I cursed good-humoredly as snow rained down my collar. Agnes laughed. Finally, we popped out up top, the valley road that snakes along the acequia madre and eventually veers up a long hill to the mesa, the flat table lands up high where windswept houses and escarpments of ancient rock overlook the Rio Grande Gorge. Silke’s house, our intended destination, was less than half a mile as the crow flies. Our journey would be circuitous.

“Now can I ride in the sled?” Agnes asked. She wasn’t tired. She just wanted the simple joy of riding in the sled. Well heck, I wanted the simple joy of pulling her in a sled, silence and snow our companions.

“Yeah, pup,” I answered with a smile, setting the blue toboggan on the ground, “but I’m going to ask you to walk again when we get to the hill.” Smiling, she stepped into the sled and handed me the rope. “Okay,” she answered...

***
I continue to love the simplicity and style of Off Grid Kids. The tender moments of real life with kids in nature. Read on and subscribe if you enjoy.

December 24, 2019

07/15/2026

Got soaked in Taos Canyon yesterday with a friend and 3 children. Used my windshield wipers on the way home. Water was running on the roads. I stepped in puddles.

I consider that a win. Can’t help sharing this forecast. Potential for rain everyday ❤️🙂 💦 Keep it coming. We’re so grateful.

07/13/2026

“This is boring,” Kylie said.

I was introducing fractions to my 1st and 2nd graders, something that was brand new to Kylie and the rest of us. As she indicated, I was doing a terrible job of it. Some teachers might get annoyed at a statement like hers. Me too, but I knew there was something underneath what she was saying. “Alright,” I said, then erased the chalkboard.

“Did I ever tell you about Farmer Bill?”

“No.”

“Well one morning he woke up, and you know what he heard?”

“What?”

“Moo-ooo-oo…” I gave my best impression of a 60’s era jazz singer. The kids laughed.

“It was Betsy,” I said. “Farmer Bill loved Betsy because…well…moo-ooo-ooo-oo…” Again, the kids laughed. It was clear they enjoyed her soulful ballad as much as Farmer Bill did.

I went on to describe how Betsy sang so lovely when she, you know, felt the need… Those udders don’t milk themselves. So Farmer Bill milked Betsy and got one gallon. He had a nosy neighbor who was always peeking over the fence, so Farmer Bill divided the gallon in half to give to his neighbor, who then happily walked home.

I drew a gallon jug on the board, then two half-gallons. The nosy neighbor divided his half-gallon into quarts (or fourths), and I drew the symbols ½ and ¼ next to each bottle.

Then Farmer Bill heard another sound. I gave a gruff, throaty, “MoOoOo!” It was Froggy. Time for milking. Farmer Bill milked Froggy, got another gallon of milk, then got a call from his brother. He had three brothers, actually, and each one asked for milk. “Well shucks,” said Farmer Bill, “I’ve only got a gallon left, but I’ll divide it into thirds.”

I drew it out on the board, trying to get my bottles to look like three of them would equal the original gallon. Hardly mattered. Next to each one I wrote 1/3.

Well shoot, Farmer Bill had eight sisters and two more cows. By the end of the story, we had laid out the basic notation and language of fractions. We we’re laughing and singing, everyone interrupting with a soulful moo or a hoarse moo. Honestly, it’s hard to say the word “moo” and not smile. It was as if the cows were now our good friends. They sorta were.

The next day, the kids asked me to tell the story again. They really liked Betsy. Froggy startled everyone but made us giggle. Once again we tackled the fractions, but now it wasn’t boring - it was something the kids sought after.

Storytelling is a cognitive skill humans evolved ages ago to attract and retain someone’s attention. It’s a way to share information and keep people interested in what you’re talking about. It’s not strange that a bunch of six- and seven-year-olds found fractions cumbersome. So do most adults. By turning the subject into a story, we unlocked joyfulness in our minds so that the useful knowledge was more easily received.

Try it with your own kids. The possibilities are endless.

shift knowledge to joy

07/12/2026

How do I remain a trustworthy parent when I feel depressed?

Two years ago, I went through a significant period of grief and depression. I lost my home, my financial security, and the woman I loved. I was overwhelmed and flooded with difficult emotions every day for weeks and months. This triggered unwanted and shameful feelings in me from an early childhood trauma when my mother died suddenly (I was 14 months old). As I explored those feelings, it became obvious to me that I needed to stay with some of those sensations in order to bring healing into my body.

What caught my attention during this period of depression is that my daughter thrived. She’s 14. She’s confident, intelligent, and outgoing. She begins high school in the fall. We are very close, yet when I went through this period of depression (which was nearly 2 years), she didn’t:

- get depressed with me
- feel responsible for making me feel better
- hate or resist the loss of my fun, loving self
- get entwined with me in weird codependent ways

How did we manage to do that?

When I speak with adult women about the journey my daughter and I went on, I find that many of them react with surprise, excitement, but also intensity and regret. Men too. People often speak to me of having felt responsible for caretaking their parents’ feelings (especially their father’s). Women in particular describe repeating this pattern in their adult relationships, where they feel obligated to witness and manage their male partner’s emotions for them. It’s a dynamic many have come to regret. Some have escaped it. Others less so.

How did my daughter and I avoid this?

I work with children and families. I am the author of How to Tell Stories to Children (22 languages), and several other resources for parents, but I'm not a licensed therapist. I enjoy shared inquiry and open communication. I have a sincere interest in this subject, and believe that there are a great deal of us parents facing loss/grief/depression while simultaneously raising our kids. How do we do that in responsible ways?

If you're interested in exploring this subject with me and group of thoughtful parents, leave a comment and I will share more about Parenting with Depression, a no-cost WhatsApp group I created to support parents facing these challenging times and wanting to do right by their kids.

07/10/2026

Two years ago, I went through a significant period of grief and depression.

I lost my home, my financial security, and the woman I loved. I was overwhelmed and flooded with difficult emotions every day for weeks and months. This triggered unwanted and shameful feelings in me from an early childhood trauma when my mother died suddenly. I was 14 months old. As I explored (and resisted) those feelings, it became obvious to me that I needed to stay with some of those sensations in order to bring healing into my body.

But I'm a parent, and I wasn't always sure how to face this in myself while simultaneously caring for my 12-year-old daughter, whom I'm very close to (the partner I lost was not her mother).

I’m grateful to say that I was able to explore all this. I am no longer depressed. In fact, I’m in a period of life where I am thriving. I recently completed 10 years of forest school with my students and am collaborating with people and communities on what feels like my life’s work. I have a new partner in my life, a wonderful home and garden, and good friends. Of course, like all humans, I continue to face difficult feelings from time to time, but now with a much improved awareness of their impact.

What caught my attention during this period of depression is that my daughter thrived. She’s now 14. She’s confident, intelligent, and outgoing. She begins high school in the fall. We are very close, yet when I went through this period of depression (which was nearly 2 years), she didn’t:

- get depressed with me
- feel responsible for making me feel better
- hate or resist the loss of my fun, loving self
- get entwined with me in weird codependent ways

How did we manage to do that?

I don't like to pretend like I have all the answers. What I have is curiosity and a willingness to ask hard questions.

Having talked with many friends, counselors, and elders, I now recognize that my daughter and I managed to navigate a dark passage without either of us leaning too heavily on one or the other. She maintained her autonomy, respected my sore feelings, but didn't feel responsible for them. Somehow, we loved each other while escaping a very common pattern of unhealthy co-dependent emotional dynamics.

When I speak with adult women about the journey my daughter and I went on, I find that many of them react with surprise, excitement, but also intensity and regret. Men too. People often speak to me of having felt responsible for caretaking their parents’ feelings (especially their father’s). Women in particular then find themselves repeating this pattern in adult relationships, where they feel obligated to witness and manage their male partner’s or friend’s emotions. It’s a dynamic many have come to regret. Some have escaped it. Others less so. How did my daughter and I avoid this?

Our culture is under a lot of pressure right now. Many parents are facing personal, financial, and political stress, as well as their own histories of personal trauma. Thankfully, we’re better able to talk about these things today than in previous generations. We’re less likely to ignore or turn away from intense emotions and “toughen up.” We see the benefit of self-growth, and how it often requires us to face dark feelings like anxiety, depression, and grief. I think this is a huge improvement, and many of us recognize it in our friendships, partnerships, and the ways we’re raising children.

Sometimes, however, facing those feelings comes with a sense of urgency for someone to help or understand how we feel, and often we reach out to the people closest to us. Today, many of us are single parents raising single children. There’s literally millions of us. There are beautiful experiences to be had like this, but also the danger of pulling our kids too close as we face our own inner turmoil, turmoil that deserves attention and expression in order to be released and bring the possibility of healing and new growth.

How do we give our attention to those legitimately difficult feelings without irresponsibly dragging our loved ones (and especially our kids) along with us and unwittingly holding them responsible for our emotional safety and wellbeing?

I’m excited to hear myself ask that question.

If you're interested in exploring this subject with me and a group of like-minded parents, leave a comment. I've created a WhatsApp group called Parenting With Depression. It's free to join, but you do have to apply.

If you don't know me, I am the author of How to Tell Stories to Children (22 languages worldwide) and the writer of Off Grid Kids and Juniper Heartwood. In 2018, I created the Juniper School, a forest school in northern New Mexico, then spent 8 years teaching a group of children outdoors from 1st through 8th grade. We graduated in May 2026. I am a founder and grant recipient in the VELA Network, an innovator of Indie Education, and am currently supporting other individuals and communities seeking their own alternative paths to education for their children. I facilitate a project called Play Ground, a WhatsApp group for adults who want to reawaken simple playfulness in daily life. We have 32 members, and that Play group is what inspired me to create something similar for depression. And yes, if you want to ask about the play group, you can.

Wherever you find yourself in life, whether as a parent, a single adult, or just simply as a human - I hope you find people and resources that listen and support you as you move through difficult times. It's real out there.

07/08/2026

Walking with Children
..two days ago, I was walking with the Earth Children, nine kids in tow, Silke in front. I’m the caboose. Eleven people on a dirt road is a noisy, chattering mind, but I still felt the familiar left-right, left-right plodding of my feet and spine. That rhythm ties everything together, even my bowels. I was holding Zina’s hand.

We were walking from the top of the canyon, overlooking the Hondo River, heading down to the more massive gorge of the Rio Grande. It was a long walk for children aged three to six, half a mile down with the Rio Hondo burbling on the right, past the horse skull and discarded broken toilet, past the flat promontory stones, the wild apple tree, over the little bridge, the bird and sun petroglyphs on our left, high above the confluence of the two rivers, then the one-lane steel bridge (drop a stone in the water), and still a quarter of a mile back up the other side, the Rio Grande now on our left, down a path, and finally to the cave.

Then we’d have to do it in reverse. A mile and a half or more, much of it a steep climb. The kids complained almost immediately. I love that kind of $h!t.

“What do you think, Joe?” Silke had asked. We all stood outside the cars at the top of the canyon, weighing the course of the day. “No, I don’t want to walk,” whined Little Fox and Buff, the others took up the lament. I was conflicted. I’d made the trip with Agnes before, easy enough. Most of the other kids I was pretty sure of, but a few were more dainty. Plus, I had Zina with me, who’s only three years old. I didn’t really doubt any one child on that journey, but I had my doubts about all nine together. That uncertainty, to my way of thinking, meant we might as well try.

At first, we were higgledy-piggledy and many of the kids groaned. But by the time we got moving, having stopped for a good view of the horse skull, the kids had broken up into two’s and three’s, holding hands or each other in conversation. Some walked alone. Silke and I exchanged occasional glances, she well in front, me in back, hardly a word between us. Hu***ng along, like the legs and neck of a camel, our jaunty vertebrae rose up and down, clicking and clacking with the irregular hoofs and heartbeats of eleven apes of various sizes and shapes. Like always, the soft roar of the Rio Hondo held the background, splashing and hissing its way through the boulders below.

The snaking course of the path clings to the south wall of the canyon, meaning the sun, now in its winter aspect, spread a broad cloth of shade over us and the path. Permanent ice. Zina slipped and slopped in my hands, casually repeating the obvious.

“I slipped and fell.”

“Yep.”

The air wasn’t that cold, so I was wearing sneakers, the soles of which are worn smooth from so many miles underfoot. It was all I could do to keep from slipping myself, and aside from the two bags I carried, I had a three year old Zina in my left hand, and the occasional Little Fox in my right. Heaven, precarious heaven. As we crested each outside turn, we had patches of sun to warm our bodies, and bare earth under our feet. After slipping most of our way down the path, it felt good to be grounded.

Buff and Christopher, having seen the horse skull for the first time, spent much of the time identifying moose and elk skulls all over the place, with all kinds of antlers and pointies. Lisa, perhaps the most fragile in our group, was wrapped in the hand and conversation of Brenda. Brenda is a powerhouse of a girl, and the two of them conquer almost anything together.

At some point, Zina, who spends plenty enough time with me as it is, had scurried up to Silke in the front. I could see her, still slopping around and dangling occasionally from Silke’s strong arms. Agnes and Lupita, to my quiet delight, were walking together like old friends. Rudy, one of the newer kids, a boy, was doing his best to keep up with Buff and Christopher. Little Fox, who keeps to herself most of the time, wove in and out of the groups and occasionally drifted back to me.

Contrary to her name, Little Fox is not so little. She is the largest of the group and one of the oldest. She is the first child I have interacted with regularly that really tests my strength. Often we’re clambering over rocks and rivers and I occasionally help the kids up or down a steep embankment. Little Fox, a knowing sort of mischief in her eye, stands with folded arms ready for her turn. She knows it’s a challenge for me, but she wants me to pick her up all the same. It’s sort of a test. “Me too…?” she seems to be saying, a wily eyebrow raised just slightly.

***This is an excerpt from Off Grid Kids, a blog I wrote about forest kindergarten, children, and parenting in the wilderness nearly 10 years ago. I went on to create a forest school for 1st-8th grade. Many of the kids in this story graduated this May, teens and villains, headed to high school in the fall. Leave a comment and I'll share the link to the full story.

07/08/2026

Off Grid Kids is a 3-year journey exploring forest kindergarten, children, and parenting in the wilderness.

December 17, 2016