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 happened on a quiet Sunday afternoon — the kind of day that used to be full of blanket forts, LEGO towers, and stories told in silly voices. But lately, that joy had been replaced by silence… the kind of silence only broken by the faint sounds of tapping screens and digital worlds.

I looked over and saw our son — our five-year-old, the boy with the brightest imagination — sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on his tablet. His laughter, once loud and contagious, had been replaced by the soft hum of YouTube videos. My husband and I exchanged that knowing glance — the one that says something doesn’t feel right, but we’re not sure how to fix it.

And then it hit me like a light bulb moment:
We were all in the same room, but we weren’t together.

That realization stung. It wasn’t that technology was bad — it was that it had quietly taken over the little moments that used to connect us. The dinner table conversations. The bedtime giggles. The morning chaos that somehow always ended in laughter.

Something had to change.

I’ll never forget the day it hit me. We were halfway through a long drive — one of those quiet, stretched-out moments where time feels like it’s holding its breath — and I realized we hadn’t really talked in hours. My husband was driving, I was scrolling through my phone, and our son, Squish, sat in the backseat with his tablet, eyes glued to a glowing screen.

We were together, but not really together.

It wasn’t always like that. When Squish was little, road trips were filled with stories, silly songs, and questions about every cow, cloud, and construction truck we passed. But as he got older — and as screens became the default answer to boredom — travel time shifted. Instead of being a time for connection, it became a silent truce: as long as the screen stayed on, the peace was kept.

Until one day, it didn’t feel peaceful anymore.

It started innocently — a few extra minutes on the tablet while I tried to finish dinner. Then “just one more level,” and before I knew it, the light from his screen had replaced the light in his eyes.

Our evenings started to feel… mechanical. Instead of laughter and conversation, there were sighs, arguments, and negotiations over turning things off. My husband and I looked at each other one night — tired, disconnected, both scrolling on our own screens — and it hit us: this wasn’t how we wanted our home to feel.

That was our lightbulb moment.

We weren’t just fighting over tech; we were losing the quiet, the wonder, the small things that make childhood (and parenthood) magical. We realized that it wasn’t his problem. It was ours. We’d built a world that revolved around convenience and noise — and forgotten how to slow down.

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.

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.

There was a season in our lives when every day felt like a scramble. Mornings were a rush to get out the door, evenings were filled with noise and tasks, and bedtime felt like a mountain we had to climb. We were constantly moving, but we weren’t always connecting. One night, after another rushed bedtime that left all of us frustrated, we sat back and realized that the chaos wasn’t just about schedules—it was about feeling disconnected in the middle of it all.

That realization opened our eyes. We didn’t just need better checklists or stricter routines—we needed to bring more connection and family bonding into the rhythms of our days.

There was a stretch of time in our home when mornings felt like a sprint, evenings were a juggling act, and bedtime was anything but calm. We found ourselves caught in a cycle of rushing, reminding, and reacting. One morning, as I was trying to pour coffee, pack a bag, and get shoes on tiny feet all at once, I realized the chaos wasn’t just exhausting for us—it was overwhelming for our child too.

That moment was a turning point. We saw that the routines themselves weren’t the only issue—it was the lack of patience and independence in the flow of our days. Everything depended on us stepping in, and that was draining for everyone. We knew something had to change.

There was a time when our days felt like a constant scramble. Mornings were rushed, evenings were hectic, and bedtime often felt like a battle. One weekend, we tried to squeeze in a family outing, and instead of enjoying it, we left feeling more frazzled than ever. That’s when it hit us—our routines weren’t just busy, they were chaotic, and even moments meant for fun were adding to the stress.

We realized something had to change. We needed a way to make family time enjoyable, predictable, and something that supported our overall daily flow, rather than disrupting it.

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.

There was a time when our mornings felt like a mad dash, evenings were a blur, and bedtime often left us drained and frustrated. I remember standing in the kitchen one afternoon, our little one tugging at my sleeve while I tried to figure out dinner, thinking—there has to be a better way. The constant chaos was wearing us down, and it hit us that our daily routines were not supporting our family—they were exhausting us.

We realized something needed to change. We couldn’t keep running through the days in this frenzied way. We needed calm, intentional moments—not just for ourselves, but for our child too.

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.

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.

There was a stretch of time where it felt like my partner and I were simply passing each other in the hallway—me heading to handle bedtime, them heading to fold laundry or answer work emails. We were teammates in survival mode, keeping the family running, but the connection we once had felt like it had slipped through our fingers.

There was a season when I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. Every moment of my day was spent tending to someone else’s needs—snacks, games, schoolwork, attention—and by bedtime, I was so drained that I had nothing left for myself. I loved being present for my kids, but I realized I was running on empty.

I remember one trip where I thought, “Why did we even try this?” Between packing for everyone, managing snacks, keeping kids entertained, and navigating airports or long car rides, I was completely drained before we even arrived at our destination. What should have been fun turned into stress, and I felt like I had no time for myself—just another long list of things to do.

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.

I used to wake up every morning already feeling behind. The day hadn’t even started, but the weight of exhaustion was already sitting heavy on my chest. Between work, family, and the endless to-do list, there was no time left for me. I told myself this was just “life,” that exhaustion was normal, and that the feeling of never having a moment to breathe was something everyone went through.

But slowly, I started to notice how much it was costing me. I wasn’t present with the people I loved. I was shorter-tempered, less creative, and felt disconnected from myself. The moment I realized something had to change was the day I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at an overgrown patch of weeds in the yard—and realizing that the outside space I had always dreamed of enjoying had become just another reminder of how little time I had for myself.

That was the turning point. I didn’t need more hours in the day. I needed a way to find peace inside the hours I already had.

And that’s where gardening came in.