Lets talk about those babies- the ones who crash into our lives like tiny tornadoes with pacifiers and healing powers. Whether we begged the universe for them or they showed up uninvited (surprise!), they came. And they saved us from versions of ourselves we didn't even know needed rescuing.

This is about one of those babies. My firstborn. My soul-saver. My accidental lifeline.

Now, I won’t unpack every single messy detail of what led me to him- not because those details aren't important (they are, deeply), but because part of growth is learning which stories are yours to tell and which belong to someone else. I’ve learned I can share my truth without exposing someone else’s shame. If this story hits something deep in side you, please know- I see you. I was you. And I'm one call, text, or ugly-cry away from walking beside you.

So, here we go…

I met a boy.

Not the kind you bring home to mom and bake cookies with. No. This one came with all the red flags I chose to ignore in favor of “bad boy” vibes and 18-year-old rebellion. We met. We dated. We moved in together way too fast. And just like that, I was deep in a relationship that was emotionally chaotic and financially tragic (I’m talking peanut-butter-out-of-the-jar broke).

He was fascinating… in the way a tornado is fascinating. Destructive but hard to look away from.

And while the world saw a girl “in love,” I was quietly losing pieces of myself. There was abuse- emotional, verbal, physical. Followed by textbook apologies and even more textbook blame. “If you hadn’t…” “Why do you always…” You know the script. I had dreams once- big ones. But somewhere between the gas-lighting and survival mode, they faded. He broke me. Piece by piece.

They say a woman leaves an abusive relationship up to seven times before it sticks. I beat that statistic. I left more than seven times. And every time I swore it was the last- until it wasn't. But the final time? Something shifted. I can’t promise I wouldn't have gone back again… but then I found out I was pregnant.

And everything changed.

Becoming a mom was the only dream I'd held onto through all the storms. It was the one thing I had always known I wanted. And while this wasn't the picture I painted for myself- single, back at my parents’ house, shattered- it was the turning point.

I made a vow that no one- no one- would ever treat my child the way I had been treated.

And then I met him. That tiny, screaming, perfect baby. And just like that, my world shifted again.

It’s wild how one little hand wrapped around your finger can glue the cracks in your soul back together. How the sound of baby giggles and sleepy sighs can drown out years of chaos. How the love you didn't know you had left to give just comes pouring out the second you look into their eyes.

That baby saved me. Not just from him. But from who I was becoming.

Motherhood didn't just give me a title. It gave me purpose. It gave me power. It gave me back to myself.

That’s not the end of the chaotic journey with “the boy.” It was years of fighting- custody battles, child support- I was still growing. Still fighting to be myself. But that baby- who has since grown into an incredible man- he was, he is, my forever constant. My reminder that as a mother, I will gladly walk through the depths of hell.

So, to all the mamas out there who were pulled out of the dark by someone under 10 pounds (just barely)- whether planned or unexpected- this one’s for you. Your strength isn't just in surviving what came before. It's in choosing to rise. To love. To heal. And to build something beautiful from the rubble.

And to my firstborn- thank you for rebuilding me.

One tiny hand at a time.

Blog Post 2

July 29, 2025