If you were to peek into our home on a typical Tuesday evening, you’d see a picture of family life. My husband is on the couch, scrolling on his phone. I’m in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator, wondering what on earth to make for dinner again.
We are all under one roof. We are safe, we are healthy, we are, by all accounts, "together."
So why do I feel so alone?
It’s a loneliness that doesn’t come from being physically alone, but from feeling disconnected in a crowd of your own people. It’s the silence that hangs over the dinner table after the "how was your day?" has been met with a chorus of "fine." It’s the mental load of keeping the ship afloat while everyone else seems to be a passenger. It’s planning a family movie night and spending the whole time fetching snacks while everyone else is engrossed in the film.
It’s the quiet, desperate scream inside your head: "I thought we were doing this together!!!"
Maybe you know this feeling, too. It’s the dry patch of family life. The space between the big, joyful holidays and the planned vacations. It’s the daily grind, where everyone is tired, everyone is busy, and connection becomes just another item on the to-do list that never gets checked off.
For a short time, I thought this was a sign that something was wrong with us. But I’m starting to learn that these dry patches aren't a failure. They're a season. And like any season, they pass—but we can’t just wait for the rain. We have to learn to tend the garden, even when it's parched.
Here’s what I’m trying to do to make it through, one day at a time:
1. Name the Thirst.
I’ve started saying it out loud, without accusation. Instead of "You never help me!" I try, "I'm feeling really lonely in all the chores today. Could we tackle the kitchen as a team for 15 minutes?" Or simply, "I miss us." Naming the feeling robs it of its power and invites your people in, instead of pushing them away.
2. Lower the Bar for "Connection."
I used to think connection meant a deep, two-hour heart-to-heart or a perfectly executed family game night. Now, I look for the micro-moments. A silly meme sent to the family chat. A six-minute dance party while waiting for the pasta water to boil. A high-five in the hallway. These tiny points of contact are like dew in the desert—small, but they keep the ground from cracking.
3. Claim My Own Watering Can.
I realized I was waiting for my family to fill my cup, when I had my own watering can all along. Leaning into a hobby, calling a friend, going for a walk alone, or just reading a book for 15 minutes—these acts of self-care aren't selfish. They are how I replenish my own reserves so I can show up for my family without resentment.
4. Look for the Fleeting Green Shoots.
In the driest patches, if you look closely, life is still there. It’s in the unsolicited "Love you, Mom" as my daughter walks out the door. It’s the way my husband automatically makes me a cup of tea when he makes one for himself. It’s the quiet companionship of all reading our own books in the same room. These are the green shoots. I’m training myself to see them, to point them out, to water them with my gratitude.
This family life is a beautiful, messy, chaotic project. And yes, we are doing it together—even when it feels like we’re on parallel tracks. The "together" isn't always a synchronized dance. Sometimes, it's just knowing the other tracks are there, running alongside yours in the same direction, ready to converge again when the path widens.
If you're in a dry patch, too, I see you. You are not failing. Just tend one small corner today. A little water, a little sun. The green will come back.
A Little Note at the End: What's one tiny "green shoot" you noticed in your family this week? Share it in the comments below—I'd love to celebrate it with you!