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On the surface, the Weesners look like a typical American family caught up in the swirl of daily life with their daughter. But look closer, and you’ll find a family quietly rewriting the rules of what parenting, disability, and public life can look like. For the Weesner family, life is a series of little symphonies. Not always pretty, rarely predictable, but real.
David and Stacey Weesner didn’t plan on becoming a voice for families like his. They just wanted to help the world see his daughter, Braylee . . . to really see her. So, he picked up a camera, hit record, and started sharing what most people never see: the raw, hard, funny, chaotic moments of raising a child who is autistic and has intellectual disabilities.
What began as short YouTube videos of honest glimpses into moments of joy, struggle, confusion, and triumph, quickly grew into something much more meaningful. A community began to form. After having a following of about 1,000 subscribers, David started sharing content outside of YouTube. Comments poured in from parents saying, “That’s our life too,” and from people without any connection to disability saying, “I never understood before.” The following grew. The message got louder.
The inspiration behind it all came from another dad, Asa from Fathering Autism, who shared his journey raising his daughter, so much like Braylee. Watching Asa’s videos gave David the push to start telling their own story. Over time, the two dads became friends. He learned so much from Asa . . . not just about creating content, but about fatherhood, autism, and even how to make traveling a little easier. They’ve even taken a trip together to California, a meaningful chapter in a journey that started with simply hitting “record.”
“We want people to see that these kids deserve to take up space,” David says. “That they don’t have to be hidden or edited to make other people comfortable.” This is a mantra the family lives by, sometimes through gritted teeth, sometimes with tears in their eyes, often with laughter trailing just behind the chaos. Let our autistic kids exist fully, freely, loudly . . . in public, parks, restaurants, on planes. Let them be messy and magical. Let them melt down and bounce back. Just let them live.
There was a time when travel felt impossible for the Wee Family as they have branded themselves—a play on their last name, Weesner. A grocery store run could lead to a sensory crash and a short car ride could trigger a panic spiral. Flights were frightening, crowds were crushing and sometimes just leaving the house was a warzone of anxiety. But they didn’t let that stop them. They tried. And then they tried again.
The breakthrough came with Autism on the Seas, a cruise program designed specifically for families like theirs. Their first four-day cruise wasn’t easy. Too many sounds, too many stares, too much everything plus sensory overload, unpredictable environments and the sheer emotional weight of public scrutiny. “We were in our cabin more than we were on the deck,” David recalls. “But we still count that trip as a win because she tried. We tried.” On the last day, there was a flicker of joy. Braylee smiled, explored, ate, danced and that flicker was all the permission they needed to try again. Their second cruise? Braylee had fun! She played and comfortably ate in the dining room. She loved visiting the ports, particularly spending time at the beaches. Onboard, she took part in several cruise ship activities, including rock climbing and ice skating. Thanks to Autism on the Seas, she was able to enjoy these experiences in a more comfortable setting. They provide scheduled private access to ship activities, which means no long lines and fewer crowds, giving everyone the chance to fully enjoy their chosen activities. Since then, cruising comes with more smiles, connection and confidence. With Autism on the Seas, “It’s not just the accommodations,” David says. “It’s that we don’t feel like we have to explain ourselves to anyone.”
Now, they make it a point to travel often. Not because it’s easy but because it’s essential. For Braylee’s growth, confidence-building and joy, with every new environment bringing new lessons.
It is interesting, but the Wee Family have had success in places that, on paper, seem unlikely: loud, crowded, overstimulating such as:
Disney World. They visited once and plan to do so again after their next cruise vacation. It was not always smooth, but Disney offers disability accommodations, understanding cast members, and enough magic to make it worth the effort.
Concerts, where Braylee wears headphones and molds therapy clay while soaking in the music. It’s loud, yes. But it’s controlled chaos, and she loves it! She would let her parents know when she needs a break.
And then there’s the Mall of America, home to one of their absolute favorite spots, a dedicated sensory space inside the indoor theme park itself. In the middle of flashing lights and screaming rides, there’s a room with soft lighting, cushions and calm. A place to breathe.
They’ve even found accessibility where they least expected it: Major League Baseball stadiums. Many now offer sensory rooms, quiet, padded spaces where overwhelmed kids (and adults) can regroup without judgment. That 30-minute break might be the difference between leaving early and making a memory. “Spaces like those feels like it was built just for her,” David says. “No questions. No looks. Just acceptance.”
The family does not pretend that every day is perfect. Sometimes Braylee hits a sensory wall and crashes hard or she would lie on the floor in a store while people stared. To exacerbate things, before Braylee’s service dog retired, a stranger tried to pet her dog in the middle of a meltdown! (Yes, that really happened.) But those anticipated moments don’t stop them from going out anymore because for every meltdown, there’s a breakthrough. Braylee learning to ask for her headphones; reaching for her clay before the panic sets in; dancing in a cruise ship hallway; singing along with a stadium crowd; smiling after a long day at a theme park. “We plan for growth,” David says. “Not perfection.”
The Weesners aren’t superheroes, neither are they influencers chasing brand deals or applause. They’re just two parents showing up every day, tired, vulnerable but very determined, for their daughter.
Their videos often show Braylee managing sensory overload with tools her parents have taught her to use: noise-canceling headphones, portable sensory chair/swing, therapy putty, fidget toys . . . social stories also help tremendously. She knows now when she needs them. She asks, and that’s monumental. When they leave the house, Braylee now has her system in place. When everything aligns, she thrives.
Today, 12-year-old Braylee navigates transitions with more confidence, whether it is new hotel rooms, unfamiliar restaurants or theme parks packed with people and sounds. But it took years of trial, error, and gentle persistence to get here. However, David and Stacey aren’t claiming to have it all figured out. They just refuse to let fear make decisions for them. Instead of avoiding public places, they prepare for them. Instead of staying home, they modify. Instead of shrinking, they expand. And when people stare? They keep going. When someone rolls their eyes at a meltdown or makes a flippant comment about parenting? They keep going . . . breathe, educate if they can, and keep going.
Because Braylee deserves the world. The whole thing. Not just the accessible corners of it.
What the Weesners are doing isn’t flashy and doesn’t involve big policies or dramatic confrontations. Their advocacy is quieter, more powerful: showing up in the spaces that weren’t built for families like theirs and saying: “We belong here.”
They’re showing what it looks like to let your kid stim freely in a shopping mall, to wear headphones at a rock concert, to scream on a rollercoaster, and maybe scream getting off it too. To not apologize for existing in a body or brain that functions differently. Their story is a call to humanity!
So, if you’re reading this and you’ve ever whispered “maybe next time” when your child wanted to go somewhere too overwhelming, hear this:
You can start small. A half-hour drive, short walk, sensory-friendly movie, beach on a quiet day. A little win that builds to a bigger one. Bring the snacks, headphones and Crayola Model Magic Clay or whatever works for your child. However, bring the version of your child that exists today, not the one you’re waiting for.
And please, let them take up space. The world will not change through slogans or speeches. It changes when we take our kids to the grocery store without shame or fear, to the stadium, the stage, the sea . . . outdoors, and show the world that our kids were never the problem.
They were just waiting for someone to let them be seen.