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.

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 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.

It’s strange how quietly distance can grow in a home that’s always full of sound. There were nights when we sat side by side on the couch, both scrolling our phones, talking, but not really hearing. We weren’t angry, not fighting. We were just… disconnected.

It hit us one night after our son asked us to help him with a simple project. He looked back and forth between us as we both froze, unsure who should take the lead. That small hesitation felt louder than any argument. In that moment, it hit us like a light bulb flickering on, we weren’t a team anymore. We had become great parents and responsible adults, but somewhere in the process, we stopped learning together, stopped growing together.

That realization hurt. But it also gave us a direction.

There was a moment when I realized something had quietly shifted between us. I was sitting at the table, scrolling through my phone, while our son was nearby, laughing at something on his tablet. We were in the same room, but miles apart. He was growing, changing, learning new things every day, and I was missing it, one busy moment at a time. I told myself I was “spending time” with him, but deep down I knew I wasn’t really connecting. That realization hit me hard one evening when he asked a simple question: “Can you help me with this?” and I hesitated because I was “too busy.” The look on his face made me pause. That was my lightbulb moment.

There was a stretch of time when every morning started with a sigh.
Shoes weren’t where they were supposed to be. Lunches weren’t packed.
And by the time breakfast hit the table, patience was already running low.

We weren’t yelling — but we weren’t connecting either. It was like we were all stuck in our own separate worlds, rushing, reacting, and barely breathing.
And that quiet, constant stress started to creep into everything — bedtime, weekends, even the moments that were supposed to be “fun.”

One night after another long day, our son asked a simple question that stopped us in our tracks:
“Why do you and Mom always look so tired?”

That was our light bulb moment.
It wasn’t just the busy schedule or endless tasks — it was that everything fell on us. We were doing so much for him that we weren’t doing enough with him.

That realization hurt a little. But it also gave us hope — because if the stress was coming from imbalance, maybe balance could fix it.

I used to dread the question, “What’s for dinner?”

It wasn’t just about what we were eating — it was everything that came with it.
The planning. The rushing. The sighs from the table when something “looked weird.”

By 5:30 p.m., I felt like I had already lived three full days. I’d pull something together, half-listening to the mental list running through my head — laundry, homework, dishes, bedtime routine — and then brace myself for the dinnertime battle.

And then, one night, I looked across the table and saw our son, fork barely moving, head resting on his hand, and I realized…
we weren’t connecting anymore.

Dinner had become just another box to check.
Something that was supposed to bring us together had somehow started pulling us apart.

That night, after clearing the plates, I sat in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by cold leftovers and guilt. And that’s when it hit me — my lightbulb moment — this wasn’t working.

We had built our days around trying to make time, but somehow, in all that rushing, we had lost the very moments we were trying to protect.

Something had to change.

There was a time when our mornings felt frantic, evenings were a whirlwind, and bedtime often left us feeling drained and frustrated. I remember trying to get our little one ready for school while simultaneously juggling breakfast and emails, feeling like we were barely keeping up. It became clear that our daily routines were working against us rather than for us.

We realized something had to change. If we didn’t find a way to simplify our days, the constant chaos would continue to wear us down—and it wasn’t just affecting us, it was affecting our child too.

I remember the season when exhaustion felt like my new normal. I was moving from one thing to the next—packing lunches, doing laundry, answering emails, running errands—always on autopilot. By the time I sat down at night, I realized I hadn’t had a single moment for myself all day. I was running our family, but I wasn’t living.

It took us a while to realize that this wasn’t just “life being busy.” This was a problem. I was burning out. Our family rhythm was all over the place, and instead of life feeling connected and joyful, it felt like we were just surviving each day. That realization was heavy, but it also sparked the change we needed.

We decided to simplify. Not overnight, not perfectly, but slowly, with intention. And while we’re still learning every day, I can tell you this: simplifying routines has made our home calmer, our relationships stronger, and our days more manageable.