Oliver lives with Sensory Processing Disorder.

Today it’s 37 degrees outside, and he’s wearing shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. I’m bundled up, and people ask where his coat is—especially when they look at me and see how bundled I am.

What they don’t see is what happened first.

They didn’t see me try multiple sweatshirts and coats. They didn’t see the sensory overload that followed—head banging, kicking, crying until he got sick. They didn’t see the tiny scratches on my face from him fighting while I held him as tightly as I could, not to restrain him, but to help him feel safe enough to calm down.

They didn’t see the ripple effect of the meltdown. His sister cried because it made her late to school, which triggers her anxiety—none of which is her fault.

In those moments, I cling to the strength God provides when my own runs out, trusting Him to carry what I cannot. Sometimes faith looks like deep breaths, whispered prayers, and choosing love when nothing else makes sense.

For Oliver, certain fabrics and pressure feel painful, not comforting. What looks like “no coat” is actually the most loving choice we could make today.

So if you see a child dressed differently than you expect, please remember: you’re only seeing a moment, not the whole story. Behind that moment is a family doing their best, making hard choices rooted in love. God sees the tears, the battles, and the unseen sacrifices, and He meets us with grace—may we offer that same patience, kindness, and grace to one another, because some battles are invisible, and every child and every struggle matters. 💙