There was a time when we felt like we were living together, but not really together.
The days blurred into work, school drop-offs, bills, and the endless list of things that had to be done. Conversations became logistical: “Did you grab the groceries?” “What’s for dinner?” “Can you pick him up from practice?”, and laughter felt like something that belonged to the past.

One night, after we’d both collapsed onto the couch, our son asleep upstairs, we realized we hadn’t actually talked in days. Not about dreams or ideas, not about us, just about schedules and responsibilities. That quiet ache between us wasn’t just exhaustion. It was disconnection.

It was a quiet evening, one that looked like so many others.
Dinner was on the table, our son was sitting across from us, and yet the room felt empty. He was there, but he wasn’t really there. He poked at his food, eyes down, saying little. We told ourselves he was tired or distracted, but deep down, something didn’t feel right.

Later that night, when he went to bed, we finally faced the truth. We were all together in the same room, but we were not really together. Somewhere between work, responsibilities, and daily stress, we had started losing our connection with him.

It was like a light bulb flickering on after being in the dark for too long. We realized that this wasn’t about one bad day. It was about hundreds of small moments when we were too busy, too tired, or too distracted to be present. We had stopped laughing together, stopped playing, stopped listening the way we used to.

We sat there in the quiet and promised that things had to change. We wanted our son to feel seen and heard again. We wanted our family to feel whole.

That was the moment we decided to rebuild our bond intentionally. We knew it would take time, patience, and small choices that added up to something meaningful.

There was a night not too long ago when everything just… snapped.
Dinner was half-burned, the laundry was still piled high, emails were still unanswered, and our son—our sweet, curious, wide-eyed boy—was asking for help building something out of blocks.

And I didn’t respond with the gentle patience I wanted to.
Instead, I sighed. Loudly. I said, “Not right now, buddy.”

He looked down. And the guilt hit hard.

That was my moment. The one where I realized how constant stress had quietly taken over our home. We were rushing through life—always busy, always behind, always trying to be everything for everyone—but in the process, we were losing ourselves and the kind of parent we wanted to be.

That night became our lightbulb moment. We didn’t want our son to remember us as constantly stressed, tired, and short-tempered. We wanted him to remember laughter, adventures, learning, and connection.

That’s when we decided—things needed to change.

It started on an ordinary Tuesday night.
The kind of night where everything felt like too much. Work had run late. Our son was tired. I was staring at the fridge, willing something—anything—to magically turn into dinner.

And then I heard it.
The words that every parent of a picky eater knows too well:

“I don’t want that.”

My heart sank.
Not because he was being difficult—he’s just a kid. But because I realized I was dreading dinnertime. Something that was supposed to bring us together had turned into a battleground of negotiations, sighs, and cold food.

That night, after we finally cobbled together a meal that half of us liked, I sat at the table long after the dishes were done and thought:
When did mealtime stop being about connection?

It started one quiet Saturday morning — or at least it should have been quiet. The coffee was still warm in my hands, the sunlight creeping across the kitchen table, and there he was — our Squish — sitting just a few feet away, eyes locked on a glowing screen.

I remember calling his name once… then twice. Nothing. He didn’t even blink.

It wasn’t that he was misbehaving; it was that I couldn’t reach him.

And if I’m being honest, I wasn’t much better. My phone was sitting right next to me — half a dozen notifications lighting up like tiny sparks pulling my attention away every few seconds. We were both there, in the same room… and yet we weren’t together.

That was the moment it hit me.

When our little one came along, we thought routines would eventually just fall into place. Instead, mornings turned into a rush, evenings felt scattered, and bedtime was a mix of exhaustion and frustration. We often looked at each other at the end of the day and wondered how we had gotten so lost in the chaos.

That’s when it hit us—this wasn’t just about being busy parents. This was about our daily rhythms pulling us apart instead of holding us together. We knew things had to change.

Parenting wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
We thought exhaustion would pass once we could sleep through the night. But instead, it showed up in different ways: chaotic mornings, endless chores, never-ending screen battles, and guilt that made us feel like we weren’t enough.

The truth? We had fallen into the parent burnout spiral.

It started with tired mornings, which led to rushed routines. Rushed routines led to skipped meals, more screen time for the kids, and more guilt for us. By the end of the day, we were drained, frustrated, and disconnected—from our kids, from each other, and from ourselves.

The spiral wasn’t just about being tired. It was about being stuck. And once we realized that, we knew something had to change.

I’ll be honest—there was a stretch of life when parenting felt like drowning.
I was exhausted, our routines were chaotic, screens ruled the house, and mealtime often ended in tears (sometimes mine). I was snappy with my kids, disconnected from my partner, and constantly surrounded by clutter that felt like it was closing in.

I would lay in bed at night scrolling through my phone, wondering: Why does everyone else seem to have it together, and I’m barely hanging on?
The guilt was crushing.

The truth hit me one night when I snapped at my child over something tiny—something that wasn’t about them at all. It was about me. I was burnt out, stretched too thin, and trying to do everything without any plan. That’s when I realized: this wasn’t working. Something had to change.