Braver with Jack

This story passed through the news cycle in days — but it hasn’t left me.

Two autistic boys are dead.
Their parents are dead.
And the internet seems determined to decide who the “monsters” are.

Let me say this clearly first — because it matters:

Attempting to understand is not the same as condoning the act.
Empathy for suffering ≠ endorsement of harm.
Naming a thought is not the same as wanting to act on it.

What happened was wrong.
It was devastating.
Those boys deserved life, joy, and protection. Full stop.

And still… I can’t bring myself to flatten these parents into villains.

Because here’s the part that feels terrifying to say out loud:

There is a kind of thought that lives in the quiet corners of caregiving — especially when you are raising a child with high support needs — where love and responsibility are fused so tightly they feel inseparable.

The thought sounds something like:
"I cannot imagine a world where my child is safe without me."

I have never wanted to harm myself or my child.
But I have had terrifying thoughts.
And I know many parents who have — and never say them outloud, because they feel unspeakable.

Underneath that thought isn’t violence.
It’s fear.
It’s love.
It’s protectiveness.
And it’s a brutal awareness of how fragile our systems really are.

I'm not trying to paint these parents as victims.
I also refuse to pretend they were just monsters.

Two things can be true:
1. What happened was wrong and devastating.
2. These parents were clearly drowning.

Their deaths — and their children’s — are also an indictment of systems that let families get that isolated.

Refusing to villainize doesn’t mean excusing the outcome.
It means being brave enough to sit with complexity when the internet wants certainty.

And here’s the part that should alarm all of us:

When disability supports are thin, underfunded, inconsistent, or conditional, those thoughts get louder — not because parents are broken, but because they are paying attention.

Families don’t need more judgment.
They need real support before crisis.
Respite that actually exists.
Services that don’t disappear.
A future that doesn’t depend on depleted parents holding everything together.

If this story unsettled you, that’s okay. It should.
And if you’re a caregiver who has ever felt overwhelmed or afraid — you're not alone, and you deserve support long before desperation.

If we want fewer tragedies, we have to listen to families long before they reach the edge.

A while back, I was interviewed by my local news station to speak out against the so-called “Big Beautiful Bill.”
At the time, it felt urgent — but still theoretical.

➡️ The bill has now passed.
➡️ And the consequences are no longer hypothetical.

Easterseals Arkansas recently published a breakdown of what this bill actually means for families like mine, providers, and the disability community. I encourage you to read it (posted in the comments) — but I want to highlight one section...

🚨This is the part of the bill that scares me the most — and it’s getting far less attention.

The Big Beautiful Bill doesn’t just change eligibility rules.
It quietly destabilizes the entire system that provides care for people with disabilities.

Here’s what the Easterseals analysis makes clear 👇

🔹 How Medicaid providers are funded
• States rely on provider taxes and state-directed payments to keep providers participating in Medicaid
• This bill freezes provider taxes immediately and begins cutting them in 2028
• Provider payments will be capped at 100% of Medicare rates — far below the real cost of care

📉 What that means for Arkansas
• An estimated $𝟕𝟑𝟗 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐓 in provider payments statewide

⚠️ When provider funding is cut, states face impossible choices
➡️ Cut services
➡️ Cut payments
➡️ Or both

🧩 And historically, the first services cut are HCBS
Home and Community-Based Services (HCBS) are the supports that allow people with disabilities to live independently in their communities.

💔 𝗛𝗖𝗕𝗦 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦.
It covers all of Jack’s therapies — and it’s the waiver meant to support him for the rest of his 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄.

🚪 What follows is something experts call “provider exodus”
• Providers stop accepting Medicaid
• Programs shut down
• Direct support professionals leave for jobs that pay a livable wage

For families like mine, this doesn’t look like a policy debate.
It looks like:
❌ No staff
❌ No placements
❌ No services
❌ No future options

📺 I’m sharing my original interview again because this conversation matters now more than ever.

This isn’t about politics.

𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍.

https://www.fox16.com/news/local-news/medicaid-funding-concerns-weigh-on-families-of-children-with-autism/?fbclid=IwY2xjawPvBsNleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeZL5CPm7t_UxnyXln2bfFYCxBRpQCWqRaPqADROeBbTMmcf8vpAoHsVVHuZ8_aem_XUHFQyC3vjeBBk3cFDlKYw

Medicaid funding concerns weigh on families of children with autism After long debates, persuading, and a record-breaking speech on the House floor, House Republicans advanced President Donald Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill” Act on Thursday.

He’s been stared at for years now, but it’s becoming more blatant. More frequent. Unashamed? I guess that makes sense. The older and bigger he gets, the more shocking his stims and general existence seem to be to some people.

Most of the time it doesn’t even phase me anymore. But sometimes it stings. Like a tiny paper cut you instinctively bring to your lips and blow on, hoping it hurts less if you’re gentle with it.

All I could do today at PetSmart was stare back at the lady who was staring at my son. Maybe she’d notice me watching her and catch herself—do that awkward little smile people do when they realize they’ve been caught staring. But she didn’t. She just kept staring.

It felt like a lifetime.

When the automatic doors open and close, it’s pretty exciting for Jack. He jumps and flaps and squeals. I guess that’s something stare-worthy to some people, and I’m just desensitized to it. But dang, lady—he’s a kid. You could at least smile while you stare.

Most days, the stares roll off me.
Today was a paper cut day.

So here’s your reminder: if you’re going to stare at my child, remember you’re looking at joy. At curiosity. At a kid whose body celebrates the world out loud.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s not his work to do. It’s yours.

He needs you to wait for him… even though waiting is one of the hardest things for him.

He needs your patience… even though practicing patience is nearly impossible for him.

He needs things from you—and from the world—that he may never be able to give back in the same way.

And I’m sorry for the imbalance.
But I hope you’ll offer these things anyway.

Please give him time, like today, when he waited six whole minutes in the waterslide line… only to get to the entrance and need a minute (or more) to stim and decide if he really wants to slide after all.

Please give him grace when the words don’t come out, or don’t come out right. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must feel for him, and sometimes for you too.

Offer him understanding even when it feels unfair or inconvenient. Be soft when the world is loud around him.

Because here’s what you may not see:
His dad and I whisper “thank you” dozens of times a day. Thank you for making public spaces feel safer, lighter, possible.

You give him courage.

With a smile.
With a high-five.
With a simple “hi,” or an attempt to include him.

And you give me something even bigger—
You give me faith in the future.

Hi! Happy Halloween! Allow me to introduce to you your holiday Debbie Downer…Rachel Hritz. (It’s me, hi. I’m the problem, it’s me.)

Expectations are hard. Holidays are hard. Tonight was HARD.

Jack is happy and that’s all that should matter, but mom? Well she is having a moment.

No costumes, no family pictures, no neighborhood gatherings, no “momma look at all the candy I got!!” No Halloween parties, just…us❤️

And don’t get me wrong. PLEASE, don’t get me wrong. Us is good. Us is amazing. Jack is amazing. And happy. And none the wiser to all he’s “missing out on.”

But I’m wise to it. I know what we are missing. I know what I expected. I hope I learn to let that all go…

“Maybe next year. Maybe next halloween (or Christmas or Easter or insert holiday here)

But maybe never?

So…I’m just having a moment. It will pass. It always does. Sometimes the feeling bypasses me completely and I don’t even feel that tinge of ”this isn’t how it was supposed to be”

But tonight I’m all up in my messy feelings.

I know it’s okay. It’s ok to have a moment. To feel it, roll around in it, cry it out.

But I won’t live here.

Because there is a lot of beauty where we live. And color! And crazy amounts of joy.

We made it about 75 seconds into our wonderful neighborhoods Halloween festivities.

But we did it. We tried. People smiled us at and greeted Jack by name. ❤️

October 2022

EKKKK!!! There are milestones you expect — and then there are the quiet, hard-earned ones that mean everything.

Today, Jack got his flu shot — calmly, bravely, and without being held down!!

It’s been years of struggle, fear, and heartbreak around these moments… and today, he showed us all just how far he’s come.

He was calm. He was ready.
And he did it. 💙

His bestie (aka dad) was there to help Jack through it all — steady, patient, and proud.

I’m endlessly proud of my boy, and forever grateful for his amazing doctor who went above and beyond to make this moment safe and kind.

Last month a mom in Arkansas learned her son’s death inside a state-run care facility was ruled a homicide.

His name was Zachary Moore. He was 21.

I can’t stop thinking about him — or his mom, Angela — because this is the fear that sits heavy in my chest every time I think about Jack’s future.

We spend years fighting for inclusion, access, communication, belonging… only to face the unthinkable question:
Who will protect them when we can’t?

We’re told our children will be “safe” in the care of professionals, in systems designed to serve and protect. But this? This is what happens when “safe” isn’t safe at all.

It shouldn’t take another mother losing her son for people to see how broken the system is. How invisible disabled lives become once they age out of school. How families are forced to choose between impossible options — burnout or blind trust.

I’m heartbroken. And I’m angry.

Because our kids deserve more than “good enough.”
They deserve to grow up — and grow old — in places built on love, dignity, and safety, not neglect or indifference.

Zachary deserved that.
Jack deserves that.
Every disabled person does.

This is why I keep dreaming about creating something different — a true supported living community where belonging isn’t optional.

Because the world needs more than awareness. It needs accountability.

I’ve got a lot of words, but not a lot of wisdom.

They say if you’ve met one child with autism, you’ve met one child with autism.

But I don’t think the same is true for moms of autistic kids.

Because if you’ve met one of us… you’ve probably met most of us.

We carry the same worries.
The same fears.
The same looping thoughts about the future —
about lifelong care, supportive housing, guardianship, and who will love our children when we're no longer here.

We share an invisible thread —
of understanding, of grief,
of joy unlike any other joy,
and of the constant ache that comes with having to trust the world with your precious, vulnerable child.

We are mothers stitched together by courage and understanding,
by love that refuses to quit,
and by the quiet strength that grows in the in-between moments—
between exhaustion and laughter,
between fear and trust.

I look at Jack and think—
if he can keep meeting the world with wonder,
then so can I.
That’s what “braver” means to me.
Not fearless. Just faithful—
faithful to him,
to this journey,
to believing in what we’re building together.
One day, one thread, one act of love at a time.

Maybe that’s the balance I’m learning—
the space between getting things done and holding onto joy.
The place where logic and love can coexist.
The reminder Jack keeps giving me,
again and again...

there’s room for both.

Jack and I went to Belk today — one of our usual “elevator and escalator" adventures.

But this time, out of nowhere, he wandered into the kids’ section, picked up a blue Nike T-shirt, and started walking straight to the checkout line like he’d been doing it his whole life.

He watched intently as the lady took off the security tag and scanned it. He’s never cared about clothes before — not once. Toys, markers, five identical frogs to sing “Five Little Speckled Frogs”? Absolutely. But clothes? Never.

Today, though, my boy chose a shirt. All on his own.

Maybe it was the color. Maybe it was the Nike dude on roller skates. Maybe it was just time.

When we got home, he handed me the scissors to cut off the tag, put it on for approximately two seconds, and then tossed it aside like it had served its purpose.

And maybe it had.

Because independence doesn’t always mean wearing the shirt — sometimes it just means choosing it.

A small step toward independence… and a big blue victory. 💙

In the sensory room at our local children's museum, the world slowed down.

Jack and I stretched out on our backs, side by side, the hush of the space wrapping around us. Above us, rainbow lights shimmered—gentle pulses of color, soft as a lullaby.

I murmured into his ear, words I know he knows by heart: “pretty lights… look how pretty.”

And then, like a secret unfolding, he whispered: “They’re beautiful.”

I had never heard him say that word before.

Beautiful.

It felt like a prayer.

It slipped out quiet and delicate, yet it hit me like a rush of light. My breath caught. Tears spilled. Because in that moment, it wasn’t just the lights that were beautiful—it was him. His voice, his discovery, his gift.

There is so much inside Jack I have yet to know—whole galaxies waiting behind his hazel eyes. Every new word, every small revelation, is a star flaring into existence.

And on that floor, bathed in shifting colors, I held a single word in my hands.

Beautiful.

Just like him.

The “fun parent” thing is real—and some days, it just aches.

Jack has been in a Daddy phase for… years now. He’s 9, semi-verbal, autistic—and lately, when I walk into the room, he points to the door. His way of saying “not you.”

It used to be a funny little phase. Something I could brush off.
Now? It stings more than I’d like to admit.

Joey’s the fun parent. The one with the trampoline knees and the contagious laugh. The one who gets the best squeals and the tightest hugs.

And while he worries too—God knows he does—the load of it all mostly lives in my anxious mind. The paperwork, the appointments, the long-game planning, the quiet unraveling in the middle of the night. That’s me.

And lately, the closer they get, the more invisible I feel.

Like I’m just… in the way. So I step back.
Which probably makes it worse.
But I don’t know how to wedge myself into a space I’m not being invited into.

It’s not that Jack doesn’t love me.
It’s just that I’m not the one who makes the room light up.
I’m the one who holds the roof steady.

And I guess… I’m grieving that.

But even when it feels like I’m fading into the background, I try to remind myself of this:

Just because I’m not the loudest laugh in the room doesn’t mean I’m not part of the joy.

I’m the reason the room feels safe enough for joy to happen.

I’m the scaffolding beneath their beautiful bond. I’m the one making sure it all holds.

So no, I’m not the human trampoline.
I’m not the tickle monster.
But I am the reason the trampoline got assembled on time and the tickle monster had a clear schedule.

And I’m learning to believe—
that counts for something, too.