Five years into parenting and my happily-ever-after family life was getting less and less... happy.

Years of lost sleep. The juggle of pregnancy, breastfeeding, returning to work, daycare runs, sick children, another pregnancy — all while living far from family. It added up.

I adored my children. I adored my life. And yet I'd find myself stomping through the house each evening — picking up toys and socks (the socks) — prepping yet another lunchbox, thinking: how is this my life? What is wrong with me? Why can't this make me happy?

The strange thing is, I loved family life deeply. I was devoted…

But a life out of balance has a way of finding the cracks.

And the crack that widened first — and fastest — was my marriage.

We were committed. Completely. But we were also growing quietly, steadily apart.

He worked longer and later. Our weekends were stressful and full of micro-conflicts. It was easier to parent apart.

I felt unsupported. Sometimes undermined.

I'd spend months helping our kids build a healthy relationship with food — and he'd offer chocolate to clear a plate. I'd protect space for independent play and teach them to work through conflict — and he'd hand over the iPad at the first sign of a meltdown. I read the books, followed the research, went to the courses. I was all in.

And I expected him to follow my lead.

The more I coached, cajoled, and corrected — the less he wanted to hear it.

Then one afternoon, mid-another child meltdown, it hit me.

My children could only ever manage their emotions and relationships as well as my husband and I managed ours.

Our marriage was the air they breathed - it set the tone of the whole house and it was struggling.