There are days when parent guilt hits harder than we expect. Maybe it’s the moment we snap because we’re stretched thin. Maybe it’s realizing we’ve been running on empty for so long that the smallest thing sets us off. Or maybe it’s that quiet heaviness, the feeling that we should be doing more, doing better, doing something differently.

We’ve been there. And honestly, we still end up there more often than we admit.

But what we’ve learned in our family of three, us, as two imperfect-but-trying parents and our son Squish, is that guilt feels very different when we don’t carry it alone. When we choose to turn toward each other instead of inward. When we remember that we’re a team, not two individuals silently trying to “hold it all together” in different corners of the house.

That’s exactly what Better Together was built to hold:
A reminder that connection isn’t a luxury, it’s how we get through the hard stuff without losing ourselves.

When guilt shows up in our home, it usually arrives the same way:
quietly, suddenly, and wrapped in the feeling that we should have handled something differently.

We’ve learned that guilt can pull us away from the people we love most—especially when we get stuck replaying moments in our heads instead of returning to connection.

And that’s exactly where Squish Games steps in for us.

We created Squish Games as one of our pillars because play is the simplest, most human way to come back together. Not forced connection. Not “perfect parent” moments.
Just us… slowing down, laughing again, and choosing togetherness even when the day has been heavy.

It’s our way of rebuilding a little piece of the modern village right in our living room.

There was a stretch of time when we kept telling ourselves, “We should be doing more as a family.”
More memories.
More adventures.
More… everything.

We’d scroll through pictures of families taking big trips, smiling with matching shirts, ticking items off bucket lists like they had an unlimited supply of energy and money. And there we were, one little family of three, barely holding the week together, wondering if we were falling behind in some invisible competition.

But the harder we tried to squeeze “doing more” into our days, the heavier that not-enough feeling grew. It wasn’t Squish’s fault. It wasn’t even about travel itself. It was about us, carrying unnecessary pressure, comparing ourselves to people we didn’t even know, and believing that love only counted when it looked like a highlight reel.

And then we had that lightbulb moment:

Maybe we didn’t need more. Maybe we needed meaning.

That realization changed everything.

There are days when we look around and feel like we’re supposed to be doing everything “right.”
The chores. The routines. The learning moments.
The endless list of things parents think they should have handled by now.

And then the guilt sneaks in, the kind that whispers
“You should’ve taught that by now.”
“You should’ve handled that better.”
“You should be further ahead than this.”

We’ve felt that heaviness too.
Not because of anything Squish does, but because of the expectations we put on ourselves.
That’s the moment we realized something had to shift.

Not bigger routines.
Not perfect systems.
Just us, growing in small, steady ways.

That’s how Squish Skills became one of our most grounding pillars.

On the days when parent guilt feels like it’s sitting on our shoulders, the raised voice, the rushed morning, the too-busy afternoon, the moment we wish we could redo, we’ve learned that one of the fastest ways we reset our capacity is by stepping outside into our little garden space.

Not to be productive.
Not to fix anything.
Just to breathe, slow down, and remember we’re human too.

There was a season when we ended most nights replaying every moment we wished we had handled differently. It wasn’t that we didn’t care, it was that our tank was empty.

We weren’t showing up with the patience we hoped for.
We weren’t showing up with the calm we wanted.
And we weren’t showing up for ourselves at all.

The guilt wasn’t because of our child.
It was because of our capacity.

And the moment we realized that, something shifted.

Parent guilt often arrives in the soft places, after the house is finally quiet, after a long day of trying, after a moment we wish we handled differently.
It doesn’t come from not loving our kids.
It comes from loving them so much that we notice every gap between who we are and who we want to be.

We all know that weight.

And over time, we realized something that changed everything:

Guilt doesn’t mean we’re failing.
It means we care.
And caring is the starting point for change, not proof we’re doing it wrong.

This is where our six pillars were born.
Not as a perfect parenting system, but as a way to steady ourselves when guilt feels heavy and the day has felt bigger than our capacity.

Below is how each pillar helps us move through these moments, and how you can click deeper into the one you need most today.

We still remember the exact moment it hit us, the moment that made our stomachs drop just a little.

We were rushing through another airport with our son, doing that fast-walk-but-not-a-run parents always seem to master. Our bags were too heavy, our tempers were too short, and our little guy was quietly trailing behind us… not complaining, but also not smiling. His tiny hand was gripping his stuffed animal so tight that the fur between its ears was flattened.

And we suddenly saw ourselves, not from inside the chaos, but from the outside.

We weren’t traveling with him. We were traveling around him.

That realization felt like a light bulb shattering instead of turning on. It was sharp. It stung. And it forced us to pause long enough to admit something we didn’t want to say out loud:

Traveling with kids isn’t overwhelming because of their behavior.
It’s overwhelming because of how disconnected we feel while trying to “manage everything.”

We realized we weren’t building memories.
We were racing between logistics.

And if we kept going that way, we knew we’d look back one day and realize we missed the moments that actually mattered.

So we decided, right then, right there, that things had to change.

Not by making our son behave differently.
Not by making travel easier.
But by making connection the foundation of our family travel.

And that shift changed everything.

We used to think that travel “overwhelm” was just something parents whispered about at playgrounds or joked about online. But when we really looked at how we were moving through life, we realized something bigger was happening, something we never slowed down long enough to name.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a series of tiny ones.

The rushed packing that turned into snapping at each other.
The car rides that felt tense instead of fun.
The moments when our son, our one sweet boy, was happily chatting in the backseat, and we were just… too overstimulated to enjoy it.
The guilt that crept in afterward because we knew these years are precious.
The sinking feeling that maybe we were messing up the very memories we were trying to create.

And then came the light-bulb moment.

We were halfway through a long drive when we realized we were holding our breath, literally. We turned to each other and said, “This can’t be what family travel is supposed to feel like. Not for us. Not for him.”

We didn’t want survival mode.
We wanted connection.
We wanted to remember the inside jokes, the silly moments, the joy, not how exhausted and overstimulated we felt.

And that’s when we decided something had to change.

Not someday. Not when life felt easier.
But now.

Because if travel was going to be a big part of our son’s childhood, then we had to find a way to make it feel better, for all of us.

That change didn’t come from something big.
It came from something small.
Something simple.
Something we used to overlook:

Play.

And that realization became the heartbeat of Squish Games.

We used to think traveling as a family was supposed to feel magical. Everyone tells you that traveling with your child is how you “make memories,” how you “give them the world,” how you “soak up every moment while they’re little.”

But the truth?

Most of the time, it didn’t feel magical at all. It felt overwhelming.
We’d pack for days, stress about the car ride, worry about naps, snacks, moods, timing, weather, and all the little things that never seem to go as planned.

And somewhere along the way, we noticed we weren’t actually living the moments we were trying so hard to create.

We were surviving them.
Going through the motions.
Trying to keep everything “under control” enough to count as a good memory.

And then one day, honestly, in the middle of yet another frantic travel morning, we had a lightbulb moment.
We looked at each other and realized:

This isn’t the way we want to travel as a family.
This isn’t the way we want our son to remember these years.
And it doesn’t have to feel this way.

That realization changed everything for us.

Because travel wasn’t the problem.
The pressure was.

There was a moment, one of those tiny moments that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside but hits your heart like a quiet thunderclap, when we finally admitted to ourselves that traveling with our son felt overwhelming not because of him… but because of us.

We were sitting in the car, bags stacked everywhere, that “we forgot something” tension hanging in the air, the kind that tightens your shoulders before you even leave the driveway. Our son was in the backseat talking about the snacks he hoped we brought (because that’s what 5-year-olds do), and instead of feeling excited, we felt our minds racing through everything that could go wrong.

Did we pack enough?
What if he gets bored two hours in?
Why does this feel harder than it should?
Are we the only parents who feel like this?

We weren’t annoyed at him.
We weren’t exhausted because of him.
We were overwhelmed because we were trying to travel without the skills we needed as parents, emotional skills, planning skills, regulation skills, flexibility skills, communication skills… all the quiet invisible skills that make travel feel smoother instead of stressful.

And that was the moment.
That tiny flicker of, “Oh. It’s us. We’re the ones who need support, tools, and new habits.”

We still remember the first time we admitted it out loud: travel with kids feels overwhelming.

Not because our son did anything wrong. Not because he was “too much.”
But because we were stretched thin, running on low sleep, high expectations, and nonstop logistics that left our nervous systems buzzing long before we even loaded the car.

There was one trip in particular, bags barely zipped, snacks tossed in last-minute, all three of us already a little overstimulated, when we sat in the driveway, looked at each other, and felt that lump-in-the-throat heaviness.

Why does something that should feel exciting suddenly feel like carrying the weight of the world?

It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t resentment.
It was overwhelm: quiet, creeping, draining overwhelm.

And in that moment, with our son humming happily in the backseat, we had a realization that hit us like a light bulb flicking on:

We weren’t overwhelmed because of travel.
We were overwhelmed because our nervous systems were fried long before we ever left home.

That moment changed everything.

We still remember sitting in the car, bags packed for what was supposed to be a simple weekend trip. Our son was in the back, humming to himself, kicking his little feet against the seat like he always does when he’s excited. And the truth?
We weren’t excited.
We were exhausted.

It wasn’t him. It was us.
We were tired before the trip even began, mentally stretched thin, running on fumes, emotionally disconnected from the version of ourselves we thought parenting would feel like. Travel, something we used to love, suddenly felt like one more thing to manage instead of something to enjoy together.

That drive was the moment we realized:
Travel wasn’t overwhelming because of our child… it was overwhelming because we had nothing left to give.

Before every family trip, we used to do that quiet little dance all parents know too well, checking bags again, mentally running through packing lists, trying to squeeze tasks into already-full schedules, rushing around the house hoping we didn’t forget something essential.

None of it had anything to do with our son.

He wasn’t the stressful part.
The stress was the weight we were carrying long before the suitcase ever zipped shut.

It was the mental load.
The planning.
The pressure to create something special.
The exhaustion from already being stretched so thin as parents.
The feeling that we had to hold everything together so our child could have a good time.

Then one morning before a weekend trip, as we moved around each other in the kitchen, tired, quiet, and overwhelmed, we finally said it out loud:

“Travel isn’t fun anymore.
And it’s not because of him…
It’s because we are burnt out.”

That was our light-bulb moment.

The problem wasn’t our child.
The problem was that we were out of capacity.

And when you’re out of capacity, even the best parts of parenting feel heavy.

There was a night—not dramatic, not loud, not anything special on the outside, where we looked around and realized our home felt heavier than it should. Toys were everywhere. Dishes stacked. Laundry half-finished. Our son was asking us to play, and we were both mentally somewhere else… thinking about what needed to be done next instead of being present with him.

It hit us like a quiet light-bulb moment:

We weren’t choosing connection.
We were choosing survival mode.

And the painful part? We didn’t even notice it happening. Week by week, task by task, the clutter became noise, and the noise became pressure. The never-ending mental list of “what needs to be done” grew until it felt like the house was leading our day instead of our family leading the house.

We didn’t feel like a team.
We felt like two adults trying to outrun a to-do list.

And that’s when we knew, something had to change.

There was a night not too long ago when we stood in the hallway, staring at the same pile of laundry we had walked by for three days. Our son was asking us to come play, but all we could think about was dishes in the sink, school papers on the counter, and toys that somehow migrated to every corner of the house.

We weren’t fighting. We weren’t upset.
We were simply… tired.

Tired of the clutter.
Tired of the nonstop chores.
Tired of feeling like our whole home had slowly turned into one big to-do list.

And as we looked at each other, it hit us, a light-bulb moment that felt both uncomfortable and honest:

We were spending more time managing our home than actually living in it with our boy.

That realization stung. But it also woke us up.

Something had to change. Not by becoming “perfect,” not by “finally getting organized,” but by shifting the energy inside our home.
We needed more connection… and a whole lot more fun.

We didn’t fully see it happening at first. It was slow, messy counters turning into messy rooms, tiny piles turning into big ones, quick chores becoming full-day projects. We kept telling ourselves, “It’s just a busy week.” Except the “busy week” never ended.

One night, after stepping over the same stack of laundry for the third day in a row and realizing our son was tugging at our arm asking, “Can we play now?”, something inside us cracked a little. We weren’t ignoring him on purpose… we were buried.

Buried in clutter.
Buried in chores.
Buried in guilt.

That was our light-bulb moment.

We looked around our home, our safe place, our family nest, and realized we weren’t living in it anymore. We were just managing it. Our home wasn’t supporting our family… we were spending every spare minute trying to survive it.

And in that moment, we decided something had to change.

We used to walk through our home and feel… tense. Not because anything was “wrong,” but because everything felt like too much, the dishes, the laundry piles, the bags dropped by the door, the kid shoes scattered everywhere like confetti celebrating our exhaustion.

And we kept telling ourselves, “It’ll feel better when life slows down.”
But life didn’t slow down.

One night, after our son went to bed, we sat in the living room, surrounded by tiny reminders of all the things we hadn’t gotten to yet, and felt that heavy truth sink in:

We weren’t actually living in our home.
We were managing it.
And we were behind. All the time.

That was our light-bulb moment.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet awareness that this feeling wasn’t normal… and it definitely wasn’t the life we wanted for us or for our son.

We realized something simple but powerful:
If we didn’t change the way we moved through our day, we’d always feel behind. And our son would learn the same overwhelm we were modeling.

And that realization hit hard.

We didn’t notice it happening at first.

It was just a few extra dishes in the sink, a pile of laundry that didn’t make it to the basket, toys that somehow scattered even when our son wasn’t playing with them. But slowly, quietly, the house began to feel heavier. Every corner reminded us of something we weren’t doing, something we should be tackling, something we were behind on.

And if we’re honest… we felt like we were failing.

We kept thinking, “If we can just get through today, we’ll catch up tomorrow.” But tomorrow came with more mess, more chores, and less patience. We were inside all the time trying to “stay on top of things,” but somehow the more we stayed in, the more overwhelmed we felt.

Then came the light-bulb moment.

One afternoon our son walked to the window, pressed his little hands against the glass, and said, “Can we go outside?” It hit us like a jolt, this house wasn’t just cluttered physically. It was cluttering our minds, our energy, and our connection with him.

We were trying to clean our way out of overwhelm… but what we really needed was a breath of fresh air.

That day, everything shifted.

We remember the exact night it hit us.

It was one of those evenings when we were already running on fumes. Our son had dumped out his entire bin of Legos looking for one tiny piece, dinner dishes were still in the sink, and we kept stepping over laundry baskets just to get to the hallway. We looked around the living room and realized we were doing that thing we promised we would never do as parents, cleaning around the mess instead of dealing with it because we were just too overwhelmed to take on one more task.

We sat down on the couch, both exhausted, and for the first time we said the words out loud:
“We can’t keep living like this.”

It wasn’t that our home was dirty. It was the mental weight of constant clutter, the never-ending chores, the feeling that our house was deciding our schedule for us. Every day felt like we were behind, and we could feel the stress spilling into other parts of our life, our patience, our energy, and even the little moments we wanted to have with our son.

That was our light-bulb moment.
The problem wasn’t just the mess. The problem was that we had stopped saying yes to ourselves.