Livingwithwhit

Tag: love

  • 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.

  • 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.