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.

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.

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.

I remember the night it hit me.
We were both sitting on the couch after putting our son to bed, each lost in our own screen. The TV hummed in the background, our phones glowed in our hands, and the room felt… quiet. Not peaceful quiet, but the kind that makes you realize how far apart you’ve drifted.

I looked over at him, his red hair catching the blue light from the TV, and realized I couldn’t remember the last time we’d really connected. Not just talked about bills, schedules, or grocery lists, but talked. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed so hard with him that my stomach hurt.

That realization hit like a light switch flipping on in the dark:
We were doing life side by side, but not together.

And it wasn’t because we didn’t love each other, it was because we were both running on empty. Between work, parenting, exhaustion, and expectations, we had stopped saying yes to ourselves.

And when you stop saying yes to yourself, you eventually stop having anything left to give to the people you love most.

That was the moment we knew something had to change.

I remember the day it really hit me. I was standing in the kitchen, stirring dinner, half-listening as my son told me about something he built in Minecraft. I nodded, but I wasn’t really there. My mind was racing through my to-do list, the emails I hadn’t answered, the dishes in the sink. He stopped mid-sentence and said quietly, “Never mind, you’re busy.” That sentence cut deeper than I expected. It was like a light switch flipped on and I finally saw what had been happening. I wasn’t disconnected because I didn’t care—I was disconnected because I was exhausted.

There was a moment — a small one, but it changed everything.

It was a Tuesday night, and we were both running late from work. Our son had asked if we could play a quick game before dinner. Normally, that would’ve been a yes — an easy yes. But that night, we were tired. Dinner wasn’t started. The dishes were piled high. And instead of smiling, one of us sighed and said, “Not right now.”

The look on his face stopped us. He didn’t pout or argue; he just said quietly, “Okay.”

That one word hit hard. Because in that moment, we realized — we’d been saying no a lot. Not just to games or playtime, but to laughter, to fun, to ourselves. Every “no” was really a symptom of something deeper: we were running on empty.

It hit me one Tuesday night.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and exhaustion.
I was standing over the stove, stirring something I didn’t even feel like eating, while Squish sat at the table pushing peas into a fortress made of chicken nuggets. My partner and I exchanged that look — the one that said “please, let’s just get through this meal.”

And that’s when it sank in.
Dinner — the one time of day meant to bring us together — had become something we were all just trying to survive.

The tension wasn’t really about the food. It was everything around it — the rushing to figure out what to cook, the battles over what he’d actually eat, the constant clock-watching. I realized I wasn’t tasting dinner anymore. I wasn’t even there.

That night, after the dishes were finally done and Squish was tucked into bed, I sat in the quiet and felt this small, painful truth settle in my chest:
We were together, but we weren’t present.

It started like it does for so many families — little by little.
At first, we just wanted a quiet dinner, so we let our son watch a few minutes of a show while we finished up work. Then it became a way to make mornings easier, or to keep the peace on a long afternoon when energy was low and everyone was tired. Before we knew it, screens were woven into almost every part of our day.

I remember one evening so clearly — we were sitting together, all in the same room, but not really together. He was watching something on his tablet, my wife was catching up on messages, and I was scrolling mindlessly. The house was quiet, but not peaceful. I looked up and realized we hadn’t laughed together all day. Not once.

That moment hit me like a light switch flipping on.
This wasn’t about screen time anymore — it was about connection. Somewhere along the way, joy had slipped out of our everyday life, and we hadn’t even noticed.

There was a time when our days felt like a constant scramble. Mornings were rushed, evenings were scattered, and bedtime often felt like a battle we were losing. I remember standing in the kitchen one evening, exhausted, watching our little one try to tell us about their day while we were too frazzled to really listen. It hit me—our routines weren’t supporting us, they were draining us.

That’s when we realized this wasn’t just “the chaos of parenting”—this was a problem we needed to solve. If we didn’t take steps to bring calm and intention into our daily lives, we’d continue feeling overwhelmed day after day.

I’ll never forget the night I sat on the living room floor, completely drained, staring at the pile of laundry that I had promised myself I’d fold “after the kids went to bed.” My body ached, my mind was foggy, and I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had done something just for me.

Parenting had become a blur of early mornings, endless meals, tantrums, school drop-offs, and cleaning up the same messes on repeat. By the time I finally had a moment to myself, I was too exhausted to do anything but scroll on my phone. And even then, guilt whispered that I should be “using my time better.”

That was the moment I realized: I had completely fallen out of my own life.

It wasn’t just about being tired—it was about never refilling my cup. And I knew if I didn’t change something, exhaustion would keep stealing the joy out of parenting.