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.

We still remember the exact moment we realized our home had become louder than our lives.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No broken appliances or chaotic arguments. It was just us, standing in the kitchen on a Saturday morning while our son played nearby, trying to figure out why we were both exhausted before the day had even begun.

Every counter was covered. The laundry from yesterday was still waiting. Toys were scattered. Dishes from breakfast needed washing before we could even think about lunch. And in that moment, we looked around and felt it deep in our chest, the heaviness, the pressure, the sense that we were falling behind in our own home.

And then it clicked.

This wasn’t about chores.
This wasn’t about being messy.
This was about being overwhelmed.

It was our light-bulb moment: the realization that the mental load of clutter was taking more from us than the mess itself. It was stealing our energy, our patience, our connection, and our joy.

And we knew… something needed to change.

There was a season in our marriage when we felt like two people sharing a house but not a life. The days blurred together between work, school, and errands. Our conversations were mostly about logistics, who was picking up our son, what bills were due, and what was for dinner. We thought we were doing fine, just busy. But one night, we sat at opposite ends of the couch, each scrolling on our phones, and it hit us, we hadn’t really looked at each other all week.

We did not notice how far apart we had drifted until the quiet moments started to feel heavy. Conversations became about schedules, work, and what needed to be done next. The laughter that used to fill our home had faded into background noise of routine. We loved each other deeply, but we were living side by side instead of together.

It was one night after Squish went to bed that it hit us. We sat across from each other, both on our phones, both exhausted, and realized that we had not really talked in days. We were functioning as a team but not connecting as partners. That was our light bulb moment. It was not that something big had broken us apart; it was the small things we had stopped doing together. We had stopped playing.

There was a season where our days felt more like passing each other in the same house than truly living together. We weren’t fighting, but we weren’t really connecting either. Our conversations circled around schedules, bills, and chores. Our laughter had become quiet, and even though we were together, we both felt a deep loneliness that neither of us wanted to admit.

One night after our son went to bed, we both sat on the couch scrolling through our phones in silence. I remember looking over at him and realizing how long it had been since we really saw each other. That was the light bulb moment, something had changed, and not in a small way. We had become roommates instead of partners.

We didn’t know where to start, but we knew that something had to shift. So we made a decision to step out of our routine, literally. We decided to take a weekend trip, just the three of us. No schedules. No housework. No expectations. Just time away to see what happened when we got out of our bubble.

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 season when we were both in the same room but felt miles apart. We were busy, always busy, managing work, the house, parenting, errands, and everything in between. By the time the evening came, we had nothing left to give each other except exhaustion. We weren’t fighting, but we weren’t really talking either. We laughed less. We touched less. We were living side by side but not truly together.

It wasn’t one big argument that made us realize something was wrong, it was a quiet moment. One day, our son was outside digging in the dirt, proudly showing us the tiny sprout he found, and we realized we hadn’t been outside with him in weeks. We stood there, watching him play, and it hit us like a light bulb turning on, we were growing everything in our lives except each other.

We knew something needed to change.

That night, we talked honestly for the first time in a long while. We realized that connection isn’t something you stumble upon; it’s something you nurture. We decided to start small, with something simple, quiet, and grounding: a garden.

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.

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.