So, Whitney Leavitt posted a TikTok dance while her son had RSV. The internet exploded. She says she wanted sympathy. Let’s unpack this.
First, the facts: her son was sick with a serious respiratory virus. She filmed a short, upbeat dance video. People called her neglectful, tone-deaf, and a bad mom. Her defense? She was in a dark place and craving connection.
Here’s my take: We’ve entered an era where every parenting moment is scrutinized through a public lens. The backlash was predictable. The sight of a mom dancing while her child is ill feels jarring, almost performative. Our brains immediately jump to judgment: *How could she?*
But hold on. Since when did struggling parents lose the right to a 15-second distraction? Since when did having a sick child mean you must publicly perform grief 24/7? The demand for "appropriate" suffering is a bizarre side effect of the social media age.
Leavitt said she wanted sympathy. That’s the raw, uncomfortable truth most wouldn’t admit. Parenting a sick child is isolating and terrifying. Sometimes, you don’t need advice; you just need to feel seen. For her generation, that "seeing" often happens online. The dance wasn’t about the illness; it was a flare shot into the digital sky, screaming, "I’m drowning here."
The real issue isn’t the dance. It’s our collective confusion about authenticity. We want real, raw parenting… but only if it looks a certain way. We want moms to be honest about their struggles… but only if they’re presented with the correct, somber tone.
Maybe the lesson here is about intention versus perception. Her intention was a cry for help. The public perception was of frivolity. In the gap between those two things lives the modern curse of going viral.
Let’s be clear: filming a dance doesn’t equal neglect. A 30-second video tells us nothing about the 23 hours and 59.5 minutes of care she provided off-camera.
The takeaway? We need to grant each other, especially parents in the trenches, a little more grace. The performance of parenting is now public, but the reality is still intensely private. Sometimes, a dance is just a dance. And sometimes, it’s the only way someone knows how to say, "Help."
