Mothers Crying Out

09/11/2025

This weekend Amelia and I had the blessing of some sweet girl time together. We sat under the teaching of the wonderful Melissa Spoelstra and spent time in the Word.

Our hearts were reminded of the power and beauty of God — The Great I AM.
Unlike us, whose “I am” changes with every season, His never does. He is constant, faithful, and always enough.

What a gift to pause, to learn, and to be filled up with truth alongside my granddaughter. 💜

"God said to Moses, 'I AM WHO I AM.' And He said, 'Say this to the people of Israel: I AM has sent me to you.'" – Exodus 3:14

The Power of “I AM”

When we speak, we often use the words “I am” to describe ourselves. I am tired. I am worried. I am a mother. I am hurting. These statements reveal something true: that we are always defined by what we’re going through, by the roles we carry, or by the feelings that weigh on us. And if we’re honest, our “I am” changes every day.

But when God revealed Himself to Moses in Exodus 3:14, He said:
“I AM WHO I AM.”
That was it. No add-on. No description needed. God was saying: “I am complete in Myself. Eternal. Unchanging. Dependent on no one, but everything depends on Me.”

What a contrast to us!

Our “I am” shows our need.

God’s “I AM” shows His sufficiency.

This is why it’s so powerful that Jesus used the same words — “I AM” — to describe Himself:

“I am the bread of life.” (John 6:35) → He feeds our souls.

“I am the light of the world.” (John 8:12) → He guides us out of darkness.

“I am the good shepherd.” (John 10:11) → He protects and cares for us.

“I am the resurrection and the life.” (John 11:25) → He conquers death and brings hope.

As mothers who cry out for our children, we carry many “I am” statements: I am weary. I am broken. I am anxious. I am grieving. But here’s the good news: when we bring our small, fragile “I am” to the eternal “I AM,” He meets us with everything we lack.

💜 I am weak → He is strong.
💜 I am hurting → He is my comfort.
💜 I am lost → He is my way.

Reflection:
What “I am” statement have you been carrying this week? Lay it down before the Lord and let His “I AM” fill in the gaps.

08/20/2025

I was reminded yesterday.....even though Nick’s battle is over and he now stands in victory with Jesus, there are still so many moms still in the fight for their children. 💔

Mama, I know you’re tired. Some days it feels like you can’t take another step. You’re in the trenches, crying out for strength, for answers, for hope. Please—don’t give up. God is still moving, even when you can’t see it.

And don’t forget this: you matter too. Take care of yourself. Rest when you can. Let others come alongside you, because you were never meant to carry this weight alone.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2

You are not alone.

08/18/2025

Grieving Differently: Husbands and Wives

In our couples Bible study, we spent time in Job and the response of his wife. Many point out how harsh her words were: “Curse God and die.” But when we pause to remember, this was a woman who had just lost all ten of her children in a single day. Her response was grief speaking.

That got me thinking about how grief looks so different between husbands and wives. When Nick passed, my grief came out in tears. I cried often and openly. Rob’s grief looked nothing like mine. Within a week, he was back at work, and I never saw him cry. Quietly, I wondered, Does this even affect him the way it affects me? Over time, I learned that men often grieve differently. They may hold it in, or pour their pain into work or responsibility, while we as mothers may express it more outwardly.

In our Bible study, someone brought up the example of David. After the loss of his child, David got up, washed, changed his clothes, and ate. That didn’t mean his grief wasn’t real—it meant he walked through it in a way that looked different than what we might expect.

This leaves us with something important to reflect on: husbands and wives do not always grieve in the same way. One may cry, one may grow quiet. One may return to routine quickly, while the other can hardly get out of bed. Both are valid. Both are grief.

As mothers and wives, it helps to remember: grief wears a different face for each of us. And just as Job’s wife cried out and David responded in action, so too do our marriages hold two different ways of carrying the same deep loss.

And last, I want to say thank you to my husband, Rob. Though his grief looked different than mine, he stood strong during the most difficult time of my life. I know now that his strength was part of how he carried his love for Nick and for me.

I love you Rob and there are no words to express how grateful I am to have you as my husband.

Love Sandi

08/17/2025

What I Do to Celebrate Nick’s Birthdays in Heaven

When Nick’s birthday comes around each year, my heart feels both the ache of his absence and the joy of remembering the gift of his life. Even though he’s no longer here to blow out candles or open gifts, I still celebrate him.

I spend time with the Lord, thanking Him for blessing me with Nick as my son. I sit in reflection and prayer, sometimes listening to the songs Nick loved or reading scripture that reminds me of God’s promises of eternal life.

I do little things that keep his memory alive—like making his favorite meal, lighting a candle, or writing him a letter. Some years, I share stories about him with those who loved him too, so we can laugh and cry together.

And because Nick once said that the way to begin healing is to “cry out to the Lord,” I use his birthday as a reminder to encourage others walking through loss or addiction to do just that—to cry out. It’s my way of honoring his words and his heart.

Though the celebration looks different now, I hold onto the hope of heaven, where birthdays will never end, and where one day I’ll celebrate with Nick.

Love you forever, love you always forever and always my baby you will be

07/15/2025

07/15/2025

Mowing, Memories, and the Weight of Grief

Yesterday, I spent my day mowing. The mower is lousy—clunky, noisy, and slow—but somehow it’s become sacred ground for me. It’s the place where I think most clearly and talk most honestly with God. Maybe it’s because Nick loved mowing. Maybe it’s because in the hum and rhythm of it all, the world slows down just enough for my heart to speak.

As I made pass after pass through the yard, my mind drifted—first to Nick, as it always does, and then to the moms in Texas who just lost their babies in the floods. I can’t imagine the chaos of their pain right now. And then I thought of so many of you, mothers walking through the first year—or the first few—of this grief journey. I remember those early days all too well. The weight was unbearable. The silence was deafening. I would wake up and immediately feel like I was suffocating under the reality that Nick was gone.

I remember thinking, There’s no way I’m going to survive this.
How does a mother live without her child?
How do I keep breathing when the person I love most is no longer breathing at all?

Those early years were filled with fog, guilt, anger, and an aching that had no words. But as I rode that mower yesterday, I realized something—I did survive. Not because I’m strong, but because I kept showing up. I cried out to God over and over. Some days with words. Other days with nothing but tears.

So if you're in those first steps of grief right now, I want you to know something: You're not crazy. You're not weak. And you're not alone. This pain feels impossible because it's real. But there will come a day—maybe not soon, but someday—when you will breathe a little easier. And on that day, you’ll realize you’ve made it further than you ever thought you could. I know because that's how I feel today.

Until then, cry out. God hears. He really does.
I know, because He heard me.
And He heard Nick.

Today it was like I could see Nick smile and hear him say look I knew you could do it. Just keep staying in your lane Mom you got this.

Love Forever
Forever and always my baby you will be

07/07/2025

"A Mother Knows/ I DID/ And Still I Cry Out"

There’s something in a mother’s soul that just knows.
No one has to tell her.
There may be no proof, no paraphernalia, no confession.
But her spirit stirs, her heart tightens, and her eyes begin to see what others don’t.

I knew when Nick started using again.
Not because he told me.
He didn’t.
I asked him, gently but directly.
“Nick, are you using again?”
He looked me in the eye and said, “No, Mom.”

And my heart shattered quietly.
Because everything inside me knew.
And after he passed, I sat in the wreckage of grief asking myself the same question over and over:
What else could I have done?

I know now I’m not alone.
There are so many mothers walking this same road.
Still loving a child in addiction.
Still asking questions.
Still crying out.

If that’s you today, and your heart knows something is wrong—here are some things I’ve learned. Things I wish I had tried sooner. Things I did do, even if they didn’t change the outcome—but maybe they will for you or someone else:

The first one is the most important. No matter the response. Approach and speak in LOVE

1. Speak with love, not fear

Your tone matters. Even when you're scared, don’t come at them with accusation—come with concern:

“I love you. I’m not here to judge you. I just want to know the truth so I can help.”

2. Invite God into the conversation
Pray before you speak. Ask God for the right moment, the right words, and a soft heart in both of you. You’d be surprised how often He opens the door if we’re listening.
3. Focus on behavior, not blame

Instead of “Are you using?” try:

“I’ve noticed you’ve been more distant, sleeping a lot, missing work. Is something going on that you don’t feel safe talking about?”

It’s less threatening—and more likely to lead to truth.

4. Offer to walk with them, not fix them

They may not be ready to admit it yet, but knowing you’re not going to walk away matters.

“Whatever it is—we’ll face it together. You’re not alone.”
5. Be ready with resources

Have a counselor's number. A support group. A plan. Sometimes they want help but don’t know where to start. Be the one who’s ready.
6. Keep the door open—even when they lie

They may not be honest at first. But that conversation could plant a seed that breaks through later. Don’t underestimate the power of presence.
After Nick passed, I wrestled with what I should have done differently.
But now I know—he knew I loved him.
He knew I saw him.
He knew I was crying out for him.
So if you’re in that place, Mama—keep crying out.
Don’t give up.
Don’t blame yourself.
And don’t stop loving with truth, and courage.

"Don’t Ignore What You See or Feel"

Mama, if your spirit is stirring—pay attention.
If something feels off with your child, even if you can't quite name it—don’t ignore it.
You’re not imagining things. That unsettled feeling inside you isn’t paranoia.
It’s love. It’s wisdom. It’s God whispering through your mother’s heart.

Nick was struggling again, I felt it.
Before I saw the signs, before the words changed, before the weight dropped or the calls got short…
I knew.
Something in me just knew.

I don’t live in shame—but I do live in truth.
And the truth is: we must stop ignoring what we see and feel.

You may be tempted to wait until you have “proof.”
But proof doesn’t matter when your child is drowning and you’ve got a rope in your hand.
Trust your gut. Speak up.
Say the hard thing. Ask the real questions.

Don’t wait for the overdose.
Don’t wait for the arrest.
Don’t wait for the phone call that changes everything.

You have the right to speak into their life.
You have the right to say:

“Something’s not right. I see it. I feel it. I love you too much to pretend I don’t.”

And if they get angry, let them.
If they shut down, love them anyway.
If they lie, keep the door open.

Because one day, when the fog lifts, they’ll remember the one voice that never gave up.
Yours.

So cry out, Mama.
Not just in prayer, but in courage.
Cry out in truth.
Cry out in love.
Cry out even when your voice shakes.

God gave you that knowing for a reason.
Don’t ignore it.

07/01/2025

Overcoming the Would Have, Could Have, Should Have
Finding peace after the loss of a child to addiction

The “would have, could have, should have” thoughts are some of the cruelest parts of grief. After I lost my son Nick, they became a constant companion.
I would have done anything to save him.
I could have tried harder.
I should have seen more, known more, done more.

These thoughts trick you into believing you had more control than you actually did. They feed guilt, steal sleep, and prolong healing. They make you feel responsible for a battle you didn’t start and couldn’t end.

So how do you overcome them?

Here’s what I’ve learned—and am still learning—about loosening their grip:

1. Name the lie.

The first step was realizing that the voice in my head—the one replaying every mistake—was not the voice of God.
God doesn’t shame. He doesn’t accuse. He comforts, restores, and reminds me of the love I did give.
Nick didn’t need a perfect mom. He needed a loving one. And I was that.

2. Accept what was real.

Addiction is a disease. It is complex, powerful, and often invisible until it’s too late. I’ve had to accept that I couldn’t control Nick’s journey, only walk with him as far as I could.
I didn’t fail him.
The addiction failed both of us.

3. Choose grace over guilt.

When those “should have” thoughts come, I try to speak truth back to them:
I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.
I remind myself that I showed up in the pain, stayed in the fight, and never stopped loving him—not once.

4. Cry out to God.

Nick’s words still guide me:
“Cry out. Cry out. Cry out to the Lord—He hears you.”
When the guilt floods in, I cry out. I tell God the truth—I feel helpless, angry, broken—and then I let Him carry what I can’t. I trust that He understands even the tears I can't explain.

5. Let love lead.

Instead of letting guilt define my story, I’m learning to let love do that.
I loved Nick in life. I love him still.
Love doesn’t ask for perfection—it just asks to be present. And I was.

If you are facing the storm of regret after losing your child, you are not alone.
But I believe healing begins when we stop trying to rewrite the past and instead ask God to help us live with love and grace in the present.

We’ll never stop missing our children. But we can stop punishing ourselves for things we cannot change.

Cry out.
God hears.

06/24/2025

Cry Out: A Mother’s Heart and the Hope That Still Holds

There is a reason we call this group Crying Out.
It’s more than pain. More than grief.
It’s a declaration of hope.

When my son Nick shared his heart on a podcast, he was asked, “What do you say to someone who’s ready to begin their journey to recovery?”
His answer came clearly, not once, but three times:
“Cry out to the Lord. Cry out. Cry out. He hears you.”
And that’s what we’ve built this space on.
For mothers who have children in addiction…
For those who have buried their children because of it…
And for those who are somewhere in between…
This is a sacred place where we cry out—to each other and to God.

We cry out because the weight is too heavy to carry alone.
We cry out because addiction touches every corner of a mother’s life.
We cry out because sometimes the only words we have left are,
“Lord, please. Please save my child.”

Some of us still wait for breakthrough.
Some of us have watched recovery take root.
And some of us are learning how to live without the ones we love most.
But in every part of the journey, we hold on to what Nick reminded us:
God hears. God sees. God is near.

Psalm 34:17 says, “The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; He delivers them from all their troubles.”

Nick believed that.
We believe that.
And now, even through our grief, we carry his words forward.
So if you’re here, and you feel alone, overwhelmed, or afraid—don’t stay silent.
Cry out.
Let your heart be honest.
Let your voice be heard.
Let your soul reach for the One who is always listening.

To every mother: Your pain matters. Your child matters. Your prayers matter.
And your cry is not in vain.

Together, we cry out. And God hears.

06/20/2025

Walking With Chris After Losing Nick to Addiction

As a parent, losing Nick has been the deepest heartbreak of my life. But walking beside Chris—watching him grieve the brother he grew up with, the one he laughed with, fought with, and loved in ways only a sibling can—that brings its own kind of ache.

Chris not only lost his brother—he lost the shared history, the inside jokes, the person who knew the family from the inside out. He lost the hope that maybe one day things would turn around, that Nick would make it out of addiction and come back fully to us.
Grief for a sibling—especially from addiction—is complicated. It’s full of memories and love, but also questions, anger, maybe even guilt. And as his mom, I can’t take that pain away. But I can walk with him through it.
I remind him:

That Nick loved him deeply, even in the mess of addiction.

That addiction was a sickness, not a choice or a reflection of their bond.

That it’s okay to remember both the light and the struggle—because they were both part of who Nick was.

I don’t expect Chris to grieve the way I do. His grief has its own shape. And I want to honor that. Some days we talk about Nick. Other days we sit in silence. Sometimes I share a memory, hoping to spark a smile or release a tear. And sometimes, I just remind Chris: “You’re not alone. We carry him together.”
I want him to know that his pain matters. That he doesn’t have to be strong for me. That we can fall apart together and still rise. That Nick would be proud of the man Chris is. And that it’s okay to keep living, loving, and laughing—even as we carry the ache of losing Nick.
We lost Nick—but not the love, not the stories, not the bond. And I will always be here for Chris, walking beside him as we keep honoring his brother’s memory, and holding on to each other.

Love you Chris Whitaker ❤️

06/19/2025

To the parents still living in the shadows—
The ones who carry this quiet, aching pain and dare not speak it out loud—
I see you.

Addiction doesn’t just happen to our children; it happens to our families. It creeps into our homes, steals our peace, and silences us with shame. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t cause this. But here you are—living in fear, walking on eggshells, covering for someone you love more than life itself.

Maybe you haven’t told anyone. Maybe you’ve grown used to pretending. You smile at church. You show up at work. You say your child is “struggling” or “figuring things out,” but inside, you’re breaking. You feel the judgment. You feel the blame. Maybe you’ve blamed yourself.
Please hear this: You are not to blame.
Addiction is a disease, not a reflection of your love or your parenting.

And shame? Shame thrives in silence. But healing begins when we bring things into the light.
“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” – Romans 8:1
You do not have to carry this alone.
I know what it’s like to want to fix it, to pray until your knees hurt, to beg God for a miracle. I know what it’s like to cry in your car and smile at the grocery store. I’ve lived it too.

My son Nick battled addiction. He had a heart full of compassion, a sense of humor that lit up every room, and a soul that longed for peace. In one of the last things he shared—a podcast he recorded—he spoke openly of crying out to the Lord in the midst of his struggle. He wanted freedom. He wanted healing. And even in his brokenness, he reached for God.
Though Nick is no longer here with me, I carry his voice, his story, and his faith. I carry the love we shared, and I speak now for the parents still fighting, still hoping, still praying.

To you—the parent still walking through this—please don’t let shame silence you.
You are not alone. You are not a failure. You are a warrior. And your love matters more than you know.
Let go of the need to explain, to defend, to hide.
You are allowed to be honest. You are allowed to be tired.
You are allowed to be human.

Even now, in the waiting, in the weeping, in the wondering—God is with you.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” – Isaiah 43:2
There is still hope. And there is still time.
Hold on.

In Nick’s memory, and with all my heart,
I’m walking with you.

06/18/2025

To Those in Their First Year of Loss
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

If you’re in your first year of grieving the loss of your child, especially to addiction, I want you to know: I understand your pain. You are not alone.

That first year after I lost my son Nick felt like trying to breathe through a storm. Every moment hurt. The questions, the guilt, the deep sorrow—it all felt unbearable. The world kept moving, but I was frozen in grief.

And yet, through all of that pain, there were moments when I could still hear Nick's voice in my heart—sometimes serious, sometimes sarcastic. I can still hear him saying, “Shady Pines Mom in that way only he could. It makes me smile through tears. He was funny, sharp, stubborn, and full of life, even in his darkest moments.

Before Nick passed, he recorded a podcast where he shared his truth—how he cried out to the Lord in the middle of his addiction. That moment has stayed with me. It reminded me that even in the depths of his pain, he knew where to turn. That’s the kind of faith you don’t always see on the surface, but it ran deep.

“Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” – Romans 10:13
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” – Psalm 23:4

If you’re walking through this first year: take it one breath, one moment at a time. Be gentle with yourself. Grief has no rules. Some days you’ll cry, some days you’ll laugh, and some days you’ll just try to survive—and that’s okay.

Hold on to your child’s light. Keep speaking their name. And know that God holds you—and them—with unshakable love.

Nick, I miss you more than words can hold. And I can still hear you laughing, saying, “Stay in your own lane, Mom.” I’ll try. Love Mom