There was a season where our days felt more like passing each other in the same house than truly living together. We weren’t fighting, but we weren’t really connecting either. Our conversations circled around schedules, bills, and chores. Our laughter had become quiet, and even though we were together, we both felt a deep loneliness that neither of us wanted to admit.

One night after our son went to bed, we both sat on the couch scrolling through our phones in silence. I remember looking over at him and realizing how long it had been since we really saw each other. That was the light bulb moment, something had changed, and not in a small way. We had become roommates instead of partners.

We didn’t know where to start, but we knew that something had to shift. So we made a decision to step out of our routine, literally. We decided to take a weekend trip, just the three of us. No schedules. No housework. No expectations. Just time away to see what happened when we got out of our bubble.

There was a moment I’ll never forget.
We were sitting on the couch, each of us lost in our own world, me answering emails on my phone, my wife scrolling through recipes, and our son, our sweet boy, staring blankly at the TV. The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that feels heavy.

When I looked up and saw him there, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit, he was growing up, and I was missing it. I told myself I was present because I was home. But being home and being connected aren’t the same thing.

That night, after he went to bed, I told my wife, “We’re here, but we’re not together anymore.” It was a light bulb moment, the kind that hits you hard and doesn’t let you go. We had been living side by side, but not with each other. The disconnection wasn’t sudden. It happened slowly, buried under routines, responsibilities, and screens. But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.

There was one night that changed everything.
Dinner had been a blur of complaints—broccoli too green, bedtime too soon, work emails too many. Our son, Squish, had tried to tell a story about his day, but neither of us were really listening. The dishes clattered louder than his voice.

When I finally looked up, I caught his eyes.
They were quiet.
Defeated.

It hit me like a ton of bricks—he wasn’t asking for perfect parents. He just wanted us.

That night, after he went to bed, we sat in silence on the couch. The air between us felt heavy, like we were roommates on autopilot, not a family. It was one of those moments that makes you stop and ask: Is this what we want our home to feel like?

That was our lightbulb moment.
We weren’t just tired—we were disconnected. And it wasn’t going to fix itself.