Livingwithwhit

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  • The Letter I Would Never Send

    April 2nd, 2026, I turn 39.

    I don’t feel old.
    I feel… aware.

    Thirty-nine feels different than thirty ever did. Thirty still believed life was about to begin. Thirty-nine knows life has already happened — and somehow, I’m still standing in it.

    When I was 30, I took over an assisted living facility. I didn’t have a business degree, investors, or a safety net. What I had was a calling and a stubbornness that refused to let me quit, even on the days I prayed for a reason to.

    For nine years my life has not belonged to me.

    It belonged to residents who needed medications at 2am.
    To families who needed reassurance.
    To staff who needed leadership.
    To emergencies that never waited for convenient timing.

    My kids grew up alongside my dream.
    I missed dinners.
    I missed sleep.
    I missed moments I can never get back.

    And yet… I would still choose it again.

    Because somewhere in caring for everyone else, I accidentally found the strongest version of myself.

    But strength didn’t come from success.

    It came from survival.

    I’ve lived through two marriages ending.
    I’ve loved people who didn’t know how to love me back.
    I’ve begged for effort that should have been freely given.
    I’ve stayed too long in places God was trying to move me out of.

    For a long time I thought my problem was that I loved too deeply.

    The truth was — I didn’t love myself enough to walk away.

    People see me now and they see confidence.
    They see a business owner.
    They see resilience.

    They don’t see the girl I was at 15.

    She wanted to be chosen.
    She wanted someone to stay.
    She believed if she just gave enough of herself, she would finally be loved the way she loved others.

    I spent years trying to fill a soul wound with people.

    And every time they left, they took pieces of me with them.

    There were nights I would lay in bed next to someone and still feel completely alone. That is a loneliness no one talks about — the kind you feel while someone is physically there but emotionally absent.

    I remember the night everything inside me finally broke.

    I wasn’t strong.
    I wasn’t inspiring.
    I wasn’t a business owner.

    I was a woman sitting on the floor of my shower, water running, crying so hard I couldn’t breathe, begging God to just make the pain stop.

    Not fix my life.
    Not bring someone back.
    Not change my circumstances.

    Just… stop the ache of feeling alone in the world.

    I don’t know how to explain what happened next without sounding crazy to someone who hasn’t lived it.

    Nothing around me changed.

    But I did.

    The panic left my chest.
    My thoughts quieted.
    For the first time in years I felt peace — not happiness, not excitement — peace.

    I stood up from that shower different than the woman who walked into it.

    The loneliness didn’t disappear overnight, but it lost its control over me. I stopped chasing people. I stopped begging for effort. I stopped trying to convince anyone to love me.

    And that is when my life started changing.

    I didn’t become hard.

    I became steady.

    People started coming to me for advice. For strength. For help handling their crises. The same girl who once felt like she needed saving became the one others leaned on.

    And then, when I finally wasn’t looking anymore… I met someone.

    He didn’t rescue me.
    He didn’t fix me.

    He was simply kind in a way I wasn’t used to.

    In 30 days he showed me more consistency, care, and gentleness than I had begged another person for over seven years. There were no games, no confusion, no emotional guessing.

    For the first time, love didn’t feel like anxiety.

    It felt like peace.

    And that’s when I understood something I never would have believed at 20:

    I didn’t meet him late.
    I met him prepared.

    If he had come earlier, I would have loved him from insecurity instead of wholeness. I would have clung instead of chosen. I would have needed him instead of appreciating him.

    All those years I thought I was being punished.

    I was actually being built.

    So if I could write a letter to my younger self, I wouldn’t warn her about heartbreak. I wouldn’t tell her which choices to avoid.

    Because the pain was not detours.

    It was construction.

    Every betrayal taught discernment.
    Every loss taught independence.
    Every lonely season forced me to meet God personally instead of intellectually.

    I would only tell her this:

    You are not being overlooked.
    You are being prepared.

    And one day you will stop asking God why you had to hurt so much…

    Because you will be standing inside a life that required that version of you to survive it.

    I didn’t become strong because life was kind to me — I became strong because God trusted me with storms He knew would not destroy me.

  • Faith Over Fallout

    The snow was so beautiful today.
    It reminded me of being a little girl—when life felt lighter, when I didn’t carry so many questions or so much pain.
    There’s a quiet that comes with fresh snow, a stillness that makes the world feel safe for just a moment.
    I’ve always thought the world looks more peaceful after it snows… maybe because everything is finally forced to slow down.

    I used to dream about what my life would be like when I grew up.
    I had so many hopes, so many expectations.
    And if I’m being honest, my life turned out nothing like I imagined.

    For as long as I can remember, life has been hard.
    Everyone I have ever truly loved has either walked out of my life or passed away.
    And because of that, I searched for love in places I should have never looked.
    I ignored every red flag, made excuses for people who hurt me, and gave parts of myself to those who wouldn’t lift a finger if I was drowning.

    I believed love was something you earned by giving more of yourself.
    By staying.
    By forgiving.
    By trying harder.
    And that belief broke me in ways I’m still healing from.

    I’ve carried so much heartache and grief that parts of me went numb just to survive.
    When something good happens now, I don’t trust it—I question it.
    I wait for the catch.
    I prepare for the ending before the beginning even has a chance.
    My mind learned a long time ago that good things don’t last… and somehow, that they were never meant for me.

    Yesterday, words were said to me that cut deeper than they should have.
    Words that took me right back to places I never want to return to.
    In seconds, I was that broken version of myself again—questioning my worth, doubting my value, wondering why loving me has always felt so difficult for others.
    It’s terrifying how fast trauma can resurface.
    One sentence can unravel years of healing.

    I called my mom crying—angry, hurt, exhausted from fighting battles no one else sees.

    Then someone said something that hit my soul:
    “Choose yourself every single time. Don’t let anyone into your life unless they absolutely deserve to be there.”

    And I realized how long I have spent choosing everyone else.

    It’s been 64 days since my life changed.
    Sixty-four days of grief, growth, tears, prayers, and rediscovering parts of myself I thought were gone forever.
    I’m reading again.
    I’m back in school.
    I smile more—sometimes through tears.
    I dance again, even when my heart still hurts.
    I’m learning to be present, to breathe, to sit with both the pain and the healing.

    I could sit and replay every mistake I made out of trauma.
    Every time I loved someone who didn’t love me back.
    Every time I stayed when I should have left.
    But every heartbreak, every loss, every moment of grief has shaped the woman I am today.

    Despite every roadblock, I have flourished.
    Most people would never know my story unless I chose to share it—because I still show up, still smile, still carry on.
    But behind that strength is a heart that has been cracked and mended more times than I can count.

    What carries me when I’m tired…
    What steadies me when I feel unworthy…
    What holds me together when everything feels too heavy…

    Is my faith in God.

    And maybe the snow isn’t just reminding me of who I used to be—
    maybe it’s reminding me that even the coldest seasons can be beautiful,
    and that God can still create something pure and new from everything I thought had broken me.

    I am not an option, I will not beg for effort, and I will not ever lose myself again for people who do not breathe life into me.

    My worth is no longer negotiable!!

  • When Forever Ends and Healing Begins

    Tonight, I find myself asking a question I’ve been asked more times than I can count: Am I ready for the dating world?
    Some days I believe I am. Other days, I’m not so sure.

    People say it’s too soon. But is it really? I grieved my marriage while I was still in it. I mourned the loss of us long before it officially ended.

    Before my husband ever told me he was unhappy, I prayed a dangerous prayer. One night, I asked God to expose anyone who was not meant for me. I never imagined that prayer would include the man I married—the man I supported without question, the man I believed was my forever. Our entire marriage wasn’t bad; we shared real joy and genuine memories. I still don’t fully understand what changed. All I ever asked for was his time.
    I’ll save the rest of that story for another blog.

    I’ll be honest—I haven’t always made the best choices in friendships or relationships. I see the good in people, sometimes to my own detriment. I love deeply, care wholeheartedly, and give others what I so desperately hope to receive in return.

    My greatest fear in this dating world isn’t rejection—it’s starting over.

    For years, I was made to feel like I wasn’t good enough. Not pretty enough. Like my very existence—my breathing—was an inconvenience. That kind of damage doesn’t disappear when the relationship ends. It settles into your bones. It makes you question your worth, your voice, your right to take up space.

    I’m afraid of failing again. Afraid of opening up. Afraid of letting someone see the most fragile, unguarded parts of me—the parts that were once dismissed, minimized, or ignored.

    So how do you start over after ten years with someone you thought would be your forever?
    How do you trust again after trust cost you so much?
    How do you heal trauma that rewired how you see yourself?

    I don’t have the answers yet.
    But I do know this: asking these questions doesn’t mean I’m weak. It means I’m aware. It means I’m healing. And maybe—just maybe—it means I’m learning to choose myself this time.

    And perhaps readiness doesn’t mean being fearless…
    maybe it simply means being brave enough to try.

  • Finally

    Looking at this picture, you would never know that 56 days ago, my life cracked wide open.

    Fifty-six days ago, my husband told me he wasn’t happy anymore—that he needed to find himself and God. And while it hurt, it wasn’t shocking. The truth is, the last three years slowly erased me. I lived in survival mode for so long that I forgot what it felt like to breathe. I lost my confidence. I lost my voice. I lost myself. I stared in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back. I wasn’t searching for myself anymore—I was trying to survive myself.

    The first two weeks after he left were brutal. I cried until my body ached. I barely slept. Food felt impossible. People asked if I was okay, and I lied without thinking. “I’m fine.” But I wasn’t fine—I was empty, shattered, and carrying a kind of sadness that doesn’t scream, it suffocates.

    Then something inside me snapped—in the best way.

    I stopped abandoning myself. I chose me. My peace became non-negotiable. My needs mattered. And if something disturbed my peace, I didn’t explain myself—I said no. No guilt. No apology. No fear. I stopped walking on eggshells. I stopped pretending. I stopped shrinking to make someone else comfortable. And for the first time in years, I slept through the night.

    Fifty-six days ago, I was broken.
    Today, I am breathing again.

    What felt like rejection was actually release. What felt like loss was freedom. Him leaving didn’t destroy me—it gave me my life back.

    I made a promise to myself: no one will ever again have control over my body, my mind, or my worth. I am no longer surviving—I am rebuilding. Becoming the strongest, healthiest, most whole version of myself isn’t optional anymore.

    It’s my responsibility.
    And this time, I’m choosing me.

  • When Words Become a Legacy

    I’ve been writing since 2013 about real-life challenges that shaped me into who I am today. Then life got busy—running a business, raising children—and my words fell silent for nearly five years. But with my son’s autism diagnosis, I came back to writing. It has always been my outlet, my therapy, the way I make sense of both heartbreak and hope.

    Until now, I’ve never written about politics.

    On September 10th, 2025, I was at work when I sat down for a break and saw the headline: Charlie Kirk shot at Utah University. At first, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. A friend messaged me saying, “There’s no way he’ll live.” Then I saw the video, and chills ran through my body.

    I never met Charlie Kirk. He didn’t know me or my family. But I knew him through his words—his podcasts, his debates with college students. I admired his intelligence, his boldness, but most of all his faith. He believed his calling was to make a positive difference in the world, and he lived that calling boldly.

    One of his statements has always stayed with me: “Just because you are offended, does not mean you are right.” That was Charlie—simple truth that cut through all the noise.

    Since September 10th, I’ve unfollowed and unfriended more people than ever before. I cannot understand how any decent human being could celebrate the death of another. This is bigger than political parties. This is about humanity itself. It’s about whether we will allow violence to silence belief.

    Isn’t this what we teach our children? To stand for what is right and what they believe in—even if they stand alone?

    Charlie’s death has created a ripple effect. People are giving their lives to Christ. Even his rivals have spoken out, calling this tragedy unacceptable. It shouldn’t take loss to wake us up, but sometimes it does. His death is a reminder: every day is a gift, every choice matters, and our freedoms are fragile if we don’t defend them.

    Like Charlie, I believe in the 2nd Amendment. Recently, I was in a situation where I had to pull my firearm. If I hadn’t had access to it, the outcome could have been very different. Our beliefs only mean something when we live them consistently, not halfway.

    Even in my closest friendships, politics has never been a point of agreement. But disagreement has never meant disrespect. We can talk, listen, and walk away still loving one another. That’s what true freedom looks like.

    The government wants us divided. They want us distracted, angry, and at war with each other. But we have to remember: the government works for us—we do not work for them.

    If we want to build a better future for our children, the first step is to put God first again. I’m guilty of forgetting that at times, but I also know I would not have the strength to continue without Him.

    I will always stand for what is right and what I believe in. Not halfway. Not in silence. But fully and faithfully—for my children, for yours, and for generations yet to come.

    May God guide us, strengthen us, and remind us of what truly matters. Until tomorrow—rest well and keep the faith.

  • Two brothers, ONE heart.

    I don’t think people really understand what life looks like behind closed doors when you’re raising a non-verbal autistic child.

    Tonight, I’m going to pull back that curtain.

    Paxton recently started ABA therapy. I know there’s a lot of debate about it. But for us, it has been an absolute blessing. My boy is changing right before my eyes. He’s sleeping better (except for weekends, which still kick our ass), and he’s gaining confidence in ways I never thought possible.

    He’s non-verbal. Yet, he’s figuring out how to be independent. The other night, he went into the bathroom, set up his phone and tablet just how he likes, undressed himself, climbed into the tub, and turned the water on.

    I know how dangerous that is. Drowning is the number one cause of death for autistic children. That’s why his dad and I don’t take our eyes off him for a second. But in that moment, watching him problem-solve… it was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

    Last week, my 15-year-old son asked me a question. It broke me:
    “Mom, who will take care of Paxton if something happens to you and Josh?”

    I didn’t have an answer. I’ve spent so long surviving in the now that I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead. I told him, “I don’t know, buddy.”
    He said, “Well, I do. He’s not going to a home. I’ll take care of him.”

    That moment shattered my heart and filled it with pride at the same damn time.

    Some days, I grieve the life I thought we’d have. Other days, I’m proud of the life we’re building — even if it looks nothing like I imagined.

    We don’t go to parties. We don’t attend family events. Not because we don’t want to. Because the world doesn’t know how to treat kids who are “different.” And I’m not the type of mom to sit quietly while my child is mistreated. Especially Paxton. He can’t defend himself. But I damn sure can.

    I try to be graceful. I try to be patient. But people’s ignorance and heartlessness will knock the grace right out of you some days.

    But there are moments — moments that make it all worth it.
    My daughter recently moved back home. When we’re all in the same room, Paxton pulls us into a circle. He sits in the middle and just smiles. That’s his happy place. Having his family — his whole world — right there with him.

    It’s only 8:50 on a Saturday night and this mamma is completely drained. This tired isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, mental, and soul-deep.

    But I’ll never stop showing up for him.

    Thank you to those who take time to read these posts. It means more than you know.

  • Today, I’m Tired

    Today, I’m just tired—deeply, mentally, and physically exhausted. I’m stretched so thin trying to please everyone, manage my business, and take care of the endless needs of others. I swear I hear my name a thousand times a day. And when I finally come home, even more people need me. Don’t get me wrong; I adore my children, and I’m so grateful for them. But I am tired. Some days, honestly, I have no idea where I find the strength to keep going.

    There are moments when envy quietly creeps in, and I feel guilty even admitting it. I watch other families enjoying dinners. They celebrate milestones that seem so natural—first words, first days at school, first time writing their names. I smile at their joy. Inside, my heart aches a little. Those moments look so effortless. For us, they are not.

    Tonight, sitting at my husband’s bar and venue, I watched couples laughing and enjoying each other’s company. It made me happy for them, yet angry and frustrated for myself. I wish so badly for those carefree moments with my husband. Anxiety and worry about my son Paxton hold me back. Trusting someone else with Paxton, especially since he’s nonverbal, feels impossible sometimes.

    I miss date nights. Most evenings feel lonely because Paxton requires my constant attention. He doesn’t worry because he knows I’m his protector—I know him better than anyone else. I’m his safe place and his peace. Some days I feel strong, proud of how far we’ve come. Other days, like today, I just want to cry myself to sleep. My house is a mess, and a million tasks wait, but Paxton needs me first. He always does.

    At dinner tonight, my middle child jokingly said, “Me and my sister know Paxton’s your favorite. You post about him all the time.” I laughed it off, telling him Paxton is different because he’s special needs. But later, alone, those words hit me hard. It forced me to realize how Paxton’s autism overshadows my other children’s needs. Do they feel neglected? Do they think they’re not as important? My heart hurts wondering this because they’re just as precious and loved.

    Yet every morning, the first place my older children go is to Paxton’s room—to see him, to make him smile. How have I missed seeing how they really feel? How have I been so blind?

    They matter. They matter just as much as Paxton. And tonight, amid the exhaustion, guilt, and tears, I keep asking myself: How do I manage everything?

    Tomorrow I will try again and remind myself how far we have come as a family.

  • The Silent Screams of an Autism Mother!

    My mind never stops—and neither does the anxiety.
    Every day, I battle with the thoughts and the fears. At the beginning of this journey, I believed I was strong enough. I truly did. But I learned quickly that strength looks different when you’re living in survival mode.

    The first time my son eloped from our home, we were lucky—blessed—to find him instantly. The second time was different. We were at my brother’s house. It was raining, and we were saying our goodbyes, getting ready to leave.

    That’s when my sister-in-law said the words I’ll never forget:
    “Oh my gosh, where is Paxton?”

    I felt sick. My body moved before my mind even caught up. I ran. Out the door, into the rain, heart pounding, breath ragged, screaming his name into the wind—knowing he couldn’t respond.
    Because Paxton is nonverbal.

    Ten minutes.
    We searched for ten excruciating minutes. The longest ten minutes of my life. I was living in a different reality, one where every second was a scream. Every second was a prayer. Every second was a fear I couldn’t face.

    And then, we found him.
    Behind the house. Sitting in the mud, playing in the rainwater.

    My sister-in-law spotted him, but I was the one who scooped him into my arms. He was soaked and filthy, and I didn’t care. I held my baby and thanked God over and over again.

    The neighbors had seen him leave. They watched him walk off barefoot in the rain and said nothing. “He went left,” they told us. I guess they thought it was normal for a three-year-old to wander the streets alone in a storm.

    It’s not.
    But this is our reality.

    Paxton is a runner.
    He loves being outside.
    He especially loves water—an obsession that terrifies me. Drowning is the leading cause of death for children with autism. I know this. My brain doesn’t let me forget.

    We’ve locked our house down like a fortress—chain locks high on every door, child-proof knobs, constant vigilance. Still, I lie awake every night, thinking of new ways to keep him safe. Running on fumes. Running on fear.

    Paxton is smart—too smart sometimes. He figures things out in ways that leave me one step behind. That scares me more than anything.

    So I pray.
    I pray for stillness in my soul, for quiet in my thoughts, for strength to keep showing up.

    But the silent screams still come.
    They rise up when I’m alone. When I’m exhausted. When I wonder if I can really do this for the rest of my life. When the depression creeps in and whispers, “Why me?”

    And then…
    Then Paxton smiles.

    That smile brings me back.
    It reminds me that I am doing a good job.
    That love is stronger than fear.
    That I’m not alone in this, even when it feels like I am.

    This journey is hard.
    This journey is lonely.
    But I will not give up.

    Even when the screams are louder than the silence.

  • A Day In My Life

    On the outside, I look as though I have this life down pat. Honestly, I have no idea what I am doing. I wake up every day not knowing what the day will hold for me in Paxton’s world. When I tell people that he is autistic, they automatically say, “Oh gosh, I am so sorry.” That reaction really pisses me off. My baby is not sick. He is not dying. I don’t tell you so you will feel sorry for me or him. I share that with you, so you know and understand that my baby communicates differently than you and I.

    I have never heard my baby say, “I love you,” and gosh, I want that so badly. Every assessment, or IEP meeting, I am so stressed that I am physically sick, or I have an anxiety attack.

    I remember before any assessments, I was okay, like I had accepted the diagnosis. I knew I just needed to continue to advocate for him. I also needed to educate myself on Autism. Then, all would be well in the world.

    I was so wrong, Paxton had his first assessment at the local Pre-K near our home. After a few weeks, we all met on Zoom and went over the results. I was devastated to see the results; actually, seeing it all on paper was gut-wrenching. I have written many posts on Facebook about this journey. But I have never personally shared how lonely this journey has been.

    I have never wanted anyone to feel bad for me. My life is the total opposite of terrible. Paxton is non-verbal, but he shows his love in different ways. He hugs me so tightly, gives me kisses, and holds my hand. He really is so loving. But some days are very challenging, and I end up crying in the shower.

    God makes no mistakes, I believe. I try not to question him. Still, if I am being truthful, I do question him. People have always told me how strong I am. They admire that about me. Yet, that is far from the truth.

    A day in my life is full of emotions, mainly stressing over the future. All the what-ifs. I never want Paxton to feel as if he is different than anyone else, even though I know he is. This world is cruel. Every waking moment of my life, I think about new ways to protect him. I strive to be his voice. I seek ways to never let him down. At night, I lay there next to him. I watch him sleep and think to myself, ‘No matter the struggles and hard days, I am so blessed.’

    In his eyes, I am his hero, but honestly, he is mine. He wakes up every morning happy and smiling. The first thing he will do is hug me and give me a kiss on the cheek. We snuggle every morning on the couch before I start my day.

    We are in this together. No matter what a day in my life looks like, I refuse to give up. I will do whatever it takes for Paxton to become his best self.

  • Autism Mom

    My name is Whitney. I have three beautiful children. My youngest is three years old and has been diagnosed as autistic. Life has been so hard and challenging to say the least.

    I hope to reach out to one person and let them know you are not alone.

    Paxton was born on August 15th, 2021, weighing 10 pounds. He was perfect when he was born. After we were released from the hospital, we returned home. My other two children were so happy to meet their new baby brother. Our family was finally whole.

    Paxton was the happiest and most loving baby. He was also so smart, and he took his first step in August 2022, 11 days before his first birthday. My husband and I were busy that month planning his first birthday. He was saying “mama” “dada” and “ball” before his first birthday.

    Within a few days Paxton started getting a cold and was not feeling well, so we held off getting his one-year-old vaccines.

    On August 28th, 2022, we went to the doctor’s office for his one-year-old checkup. He was perfect in every way. Little did we know that in just a few weeks our life would change.

    On September 5th, 2022, Paxton was very fussy and couldn’t be comforted. We had made an appointment to return to the doctor’s office. For the next six weeks, Paxton was so sick. He stopped walking and talking and started making repetitive movements with his hands and mouth. He would only watch the same movies on TV. If we changed them, he would become very upset.

    Paxton only played with blocks and wheels. He would line his blocks up evenly. When Paxton started walking again, he would walk on his tippy toes. He hated wearing shoes.

    He would smile and make sounds, but that was it.

    When I first mentioned to my husband and his family that I thought Paxton was autistic. They looked at me like I was crazy. As the days went on, my husband started doing his own research on autism and the signs.

    Paxton would go for hours without sleep. If you called his name, he wouldn’t respond. He wouldn’t even notice you said his name.

    We began documenting everything we noticed, as well as the things he couldn’t achieve for his age.

    I had no idea at the time how hard live would become for us.