Livingwithwhit

Tag: mental-health

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.