LivingwithWhit

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  • Perfectly Made

    It’s been a while since I’ve written anything.

    Truthfully, I stopped writing because sometimes the weight of everything in my head becomes too much to put into words. Some days I am angry, some days I am broken, and some days I am so exhausted from carrying life on my shoulders that I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

    But when I always come back to something… it’s autism.
    It’s Paxton.

    I always say this journey is lonely, but if I am being completely honest — I made it lonely. I pulled away. I stopped explaining. I stopped trying to make people understand something they could never fully feel unless they lived it.

    Because the truth is, the world celebrates “normal.”
    And when your child is different, the world suddenly becomes a very lonely place for a mother.

    But in that loneliness, Paxton became my peace.

    My sweet boy and I have our routine, and honestly, the quiet little moments nobody else would ever notice are the moments that keep me alive. The way he randomly comes up and kisses my forehead. The way he crawls into my lap without a word. The way he stares at me like I am his entire world.

    And maybe that’s because I am.

    Life knocked me flat on my back today.
    The kind of day where you sit in silence because you are too emotionally exhausted to even cry anymore.

    But then I thought about him.

    I thought about hearing “mama,” even though it doesn’t happen nearly as much as my heart aches for it to. And somehow, every single time he says it, it feels like God himself knew I needed it in that exact moment.

    I have dreamed so many times of hearing my baby say, “I love you, mama.”

    And for a long time, that dream broke me.
    Because people do not talk enough about the grief autism can bring to a mother. Not grief because your child is “less than,” because they are absolutely not — but grief for the moments you imagined. The conversations. The little things you thought would come naturally.

    Nobody talks about laying awake at night wondering if your child will ever fully tell you how they feel.
    Nobody talks about crying in the shower because your child cannot communicate what hurts.
    Nobody talks about how terrifying it is knowing you would die for your child while constantly wondering who will love them the same way when you are gone.

    But over time, I realized something.

    Paxton may never say “I love you” the way I once imagined…
    but my God, he shows me every single day.

    He feels me.
    He knows me.
    He knows when my heart is heavy before I ever say a word.

    And recently, my brother said something to me that shattered me in the most beautiful way.

    He called me randomly and asked me to lunch. We were talking about life and kids and all the silly things they do when suddenly he got serious and said, “Whit, I need to tell you something.”

    Then he said words I don’t think I will ever forget for the rest of my life.

    He said, “I used to question why it had to be you. Why your little boy had to be autistic when life has already been so hard on you.”

    Then he looked at me and said:
    “But I understand now. It’s because Paxton needed YOU. He needed your patience. Your strength. Your kind of love.”

    Then he said something that broke every wall inside of me.

    “If it was me, I would have already given up.”

    And sitting there in my truck afterward, I cried harder than I had cried in a long time.
    Because for the first time, I saw myself through someone else’s eyes.

    Not as broken.
    Not as exhausted.
    Not as the woman barely holding herself together some days.

    But strong.

    A mother who kept going when she had every reason not to.
    A mother who chose love over bitterness.
    A mother who learned how to survive heartbreak while still showing up soft for her child every single day.

    People always tell mothers like me how lucky our children are to have us.
    But the truth is…

    I am the lucky one.

    Because autism did not ruin my life.
    It stripped me down to my rawest form and taught me what unconditional love actually looks like.

    And even on the days I question God…
    even on the days I break down…
    even on the days I feel lonely…

    I would still choose Paxton exactly as he is.
    Every single time.

    Because my baby is not a mistake.
    He is not broken.
    He is not less than.

    He is perfectly and wonderfully made.

    And one day this world will see what I see when I look at him.

    Until then, it will always be me and Paxton against the world.

    And I promise you this — We will win.

  • If I Leave Nothing Else Behind

    Tonight the house is quiet. Everyone is sound asleep except for me, and here I am with a mind that never seems to rest.

    These are the hours I think about my children the most.

    I wonder if they truly know how much I love them. I wonder if one day they will understand every sacrifice that was made in silence. The nights I went without sleep. The days I carried stress so heavy it could have crushed me. The tears I cried where no one could see. The times I smiled while falling apart inside—just so they would still feel safe.

    I hope they know none of it was ever a burden. They were always the blessing.

    I hope they know they can call me no matter what. No mistake too big. No mess too complicated. No shame too heavy. I pray they always know their momma would come running, no questions asked.

    I hope when I am gone, they remember more laughter than struggle. More love than pain. More warmth than worry.

    I hope they remember the little things… the smell of fresh cut grass, the sunshine after a storm, the sound of birds early in the morning, the cool breeze that comes out of nowhere. I hope when life gets heavy, they look up at the stars and think of me.

    I hope they always speak how they feel—but never in anger. Angry words can leave scars that apologies cannot always heal.

    I hope they stand up for people who cannot stand up for themselves.

    I hope they stay kind in a world that can be cruel, because sometimes a smile, a hug, or one moment of compassion can be the reason someone chooses to stay another day.

    I hope they wake up every morning wanting to be better than they were yesterday. I hope they tell the truth even when it’s hard. I hope they never wait too late to say “I love you” to the people who matter most.

    I hope they each find a friend like I have—one that stays when life gets ugly, loves them through the broken pieces, answers the phone when the world is falling apart, and becomes family by choice.

    But more than anything…

    I hope one day they look back and say our momma was strong.

    She loved us even when life was hurting her.
    She made things happen when she had no idea how she would do it.
    She fought battles we never knew about.
    She protected us when she was exhausted.
    She gave us the best parts of herself, even on the days she felt empty.
    She was our voice when we didn’t have one.
    She showed up every single time.

    And if I leave nothing else behind in this world…

    I pray I leave children who always knew they were loved beyond measure by their mother.

  • No Words Needed

    Paxton has been sick since Sunday… and I don’t think I was prepared for how hard that was going to hit me.

    Because when he’s not himself… when he’s just laying there… quiet in a different way… it forces me to feel everything I try to stay strong through.

    My baby wakes up every single morning happy.
    No matter what he’s facing… no matter what he can’t say… he rolls over, looks at me, and gives me the biggest smile. Then he pulls himself in close and just holds onto me.

    And I hold him back just a little tighter… because in those moments, I feel everything he can’t say.

    But I would be lying if I said there aren’t nights I lay there and wonder…
    what he wishes he could tell me.
    if something hurts.
    if he’s frustrated.
    if he knows just how much I love him.

    Because he can’t say it… and I can’t hear it… and that kind of love… it breaks you open in a way nothing else can.

    Five days a week I drive 45 minutes to take him to school.
    Some days I’m exhausted. Some days I question how I’m going to keep doing it.

    But then we get closer… and I see it.

    He lights up.
    Not a small smile… not a maybe… he lights up like he knows exactly where he’s going and exactly how loved he is there.

    And in that moment, nothing else matters.

    He’s built bonds there… real ones. There are people he runs to in his own way. People he trusts. People who see him. And the love and patience they give him… I could never put into words.

    ABA therapy didn’t just change his life… it changed mine.

    I was offered something easier.
    Closer. More convenient.

    And I said no.

    Because this was never about what’s easy for me.

    This is his life. His progress. His happiness.

    And I will drive an hour… two hours… I will do whatever it takes to keep that light in him alive.

    But watching him sick… watching that light dim, even just a little…
    it shook me.

    Because it made me realize how much of my world is wrapped up in that smile.

    How much I depend on seeing him happy to remind myself that everything is okay.

    And in the quiet… in those moments when he’s not himself…
    all I can think is—

    I would give anything… anything…
    to hear him say “Mama” just once.
    To hear his voice.
    To know what’s in his mind.
    To take away anything he can’t tell me hurts.

    But until that day comes… if it ever does…

    I will keep listening to the only language he’s ever given me—

    his smile.
    his eyes.
    the way he holds onto me like I’m his safe place.

    And I’ll remind myself… even on the hardest days…

    that happiness doesn’t always need words.

    Because my baby lives it… even in a world that doesn’t always understand him.

    And I swear… I will spend the rest of my life making sure he never loses that.

  • Stolen Time

    I already know this topic is going to come with opinions—and that’s fine. People always have something to say when they’ve never lived it.

    In today’s world, it’s rare to meet someone who doesn’t have children. And when you step into a relationship like that, you don’t just fall in love with the person—you step into real-life dynamics, responsibilities, and sometimes… unnecessary chaos.

    I have searched my entire life for a certain kind of love.

    Not the kind that gives you anxiety.
    Not the kind that keeps you questioning everything.

    I’m talking about the kind of love that calms your soul.
    The kind that brings you back to yourself.
    The kind that reminds you—you are still worthy, still soft, still alive.

    And on January 23rd, I found that.

    But what I didn’t expect… was the reality that came with it.

    This man’s ex—the mother of his children—made it her mission to create disruption, confusion, and control. Despite them being separated for over two years.

    Let me be very clear about something—
    A father loving his children is not a threat.
    A father being present is not a problem.

    But somehow, the moment I entered the picture, everything changed.

    The same agreement that had been in place for years? Gone.

    The same consistent time he had with his boys? Reduced.

    And what’s worse… the children feel it.

    When a 7-year-old starts worrying about whether he’ll be “allowed” to see his dad… that’s not parenting—that’s emotional damage.

    That’s not protection—that’s control.

    Recently, it escalated even further.

    A Snapchat account placed on a child’s phone with location tracking.
    Late-night calls filled with chaos and demands.
    Messages sent to me filled with disrespect and delusion.

    And then yesterday—April 12, 2026—
    A welfare check was called on two children who were safe, loved, and exactly where they were supposed to be.

    A sheriff showed up at our home.

    After speaking with everyone involved, even the officer confirmed what we already knew—
    Those boys are safe. Those boys are happy.

    So the question becomes…

    At what point does “coparenting” turn into harassment?
    At what point does control start harming the very children you claim to protect?

    Because let’s be honest—
    Children don’t need tension.
    They don’t need manipulation.
    They don’t need to feel like love comes with conditions.

    They need peace. consistency. and both parents.

    And no amount of bitterness will ever justify taking that away from them

    Some women don’t fight for their children… they fight for control—and unfortunately, the children are the ones paying the price.

  • 2AM Doesn’t Lie

    Tonight I am not just tired…
    I am the kind of exhausted that lives in your bones.
    The kind that no amount of sleep can fix—
    because it’s not just physical… it’s mental… it’s emotional… it’s everything. For the last 48 hours I’ve maybe slept 10 hours.

    But still—
    I show up.
    I answer calls.
    I handle my business.
    I take care of everyone who needs me.

    Because that’s who I am.

    But 2AM?
    2AM doesn’t care who you are.

    At 2AM there’s no mask.
    No “I got it together.”
    No strong face.

    Just me…
    sitting in the quiet…
    holding my baby…
    crying…
    begging God—
    please… just let him sleep.

    Not for me.
    For him.
    For both of us.

    And then morning comes…
    and I carry on like I’m not breaking in places nobody can see.

    That’s the part people don’t understand.

    On the outside, life looks good.
    It looks stable.
    It looks strong.

    But behind closed doors…
    this journey is one of the hardest things I have ever walked through.

    Harder than heartbreak.
    Harder than loss.
    Harder than my own divorce.

    Because this isn’t something I can fix.
    This isn’t something I can walk away from.
    This is motherhood… in its rawest, realest form.

    And some days… it hurts.

    I want to hear my baby talk.
    I want to ask him how his day was…
    what made him laugh…
    what made him mad.

    I want the things other parents complain about.
    The “Mom, watch this.”
    The endless questions.
    The noise.

    I would give anything…
    to hear his voice.

    And yes… I question God.

    Why me?
    Why my baby?
    Why this path?

    And before anyone rushes to say “you were chosen”—
    just know…
    being chosen doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

    Because it does.

    In ways I don’t always say out loud.

    People love me.
    I know that.
    They show up for me.

    But they don’t feel this.
    They don’t live this.
    They don’t sit in the silence I sit in.

    And that kind of loneliness…
    hits different.

    But tonight…
    standing outside…
    looking at the sky…
    with tears I didn’t even try to stop…

    I realized something.

    There may always be a storm on my horizon.

    But every single time—
    the sun still finds its way back.

    And maybe that’s my answer.

    Not clarity.
    Not understanding.
    Just… hope.

    The kind you don’t always feel…
    but you choose anyway.

    Because no matter how tired I am…
    no matter how broken I feel in the quiet moments…

    I will still get up tomorrow.

    I will still show up. And I will still be his voice…
    until the day I finally get to hear his.

  • I Was Never Meant to Love Halfway

    I think my biggest curse is being able to feel and love so deeply.

    Now don’t get me wrong—I don’t feel that way about everyone. Only those I allow into my inner being. The ones I trust enough to see the worst parts of me and still love me anyway. The ones who get to see the good and the broken. The strength and the exhaustion.

    When I allow someone to access that side of me, it’s a big deal. I don’t let just anyone in. You have to be special. You have to leave a mark that stays with me. You have to stir my thoughts, my spirit, my motivation.

    But if I’m honest, in the past I’ve allowed access to people who never deserved it.

    I ignored my own discernment.
    I ignored the quiet voice inside me that was trying to warn me.

    Those were painful lessons—but necessary ones.

    And strangely enough, I’m thankful for them. They reminded me that not everyone deserves access to my heart, my loyalty, or the depth of love I carry inside of me. What I give is rare, and it should be protected.

    Recently, life has changed me in ways I didn’t expect.

    There was a time when I could stay numb. Nothing really touched me. I built walls so high that nothing could get through them. I thought that made me strong.

    But now… it’s like the walls are gone.

    Now I feel everything.

    And honestly, sometimes I feel like a big crybaby. But maybe it’s not weakness. Maybe it’s just what happens when a heart finally starts living again.

    When I love someone deeply, their peace matters to me. Their happiness matters to me. And when I sense that something isn’t right in their world, it shakes me in ways I can’t always explain.

    Because when you love deeply… you feel deeply.

    And sometimes that kind of heart feels like both a blessing and a curse.

    But if I had to choose between feeling nothing and loving with everything in me…

    I’ll take the curse.

    So yes, my heart loves deeper than most people are comfortable with.
    And maybe that has been my greatest pain in this life.
    But I would rather carry a heart that feels everything…
    than live with one that feels nothing at all.

  • 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.