✨Confessions of a Young Single Mom.

This is it—the first entry. The journal side of this site is where the filters come off. No curated highlight reels, no pretending the mess doesn’t exist. Think of it like this: you’re sitting across from me with a glass in hand, and I’m spilling my guts the way I would with my closest friend. This is my space to be real. My altar, my diary, my truth. And hopefully, it becomes a safe space for you too.

So here it is, the bombshell I’ve been circling around:
Being a young single mom didn’t ruin my life—it remade me.

I became a mother at the age most people are just stumbling through first apartments, college classes, or blurry nights out. Instead of figuring out what kind of vodka soda I liked, I was figuring out midnight feedings, how to stretch a dollar until it screamed, and how to make sure my babies never felt the weight of my fear. People say I grew up fast. But the truth? I didn’t just grow up for them—I grew up with them.

Nobody warns you about that part. Your kids don’t just watch you evolve, they’re woven into your evolution. They’ve seen me fall apart, and they’ve seen me rebuild from ashes. They’ve watched me fight my demons in real time, and in return, they’ve shaped me into the woman typing these words. I raised them, but they raised me too.

And listen—this journey hasn’t been soft. I’ve walked through fire. Abuse that shredded my sense of worth. Lies and betrayals that turned my insides hollow. An ex-fiancé who built an entire life on a secret and left me questioning if I was ever truly seen. Every heartbreak, every sleepless night rewired me. It didn’t just hurt—it alchemized me. It forged me into the kind of woman who can look in the mirror and say, without flinching: I am a bad bitch who survived.

But still, I know the whispers. The way society dissects single mothers like we’re cautionary tales. “She ruined her future.” “She’s just another statistic.” “Single moms are baggage.” As if motherhood erases your beauty, your brilliance, your worth. As if life is over once you carry a child without a ring.

Here’s what I know: they’re wrong.

It’s hard, yes. Brutal some days. But it’s also the most transformative magic I’ve ever touched. My kids are proof that love is stronger than loss, stronger than fear, stronger than any man who couldn’t hold me. Even in my darkest chapters, I created something whole. Even when I was cracked open, I poured light into them. That’s not failure—that’s power.

Do I get tired? Always. Do I cry? More than I’ll admit. Do I feel alone? Often. But then my babies laugh or throw their arms around me, and suddenly, I’m reminded why I carry all this weight. They are my joy, my altar, my reason. In those moments, I don’t feel like a “single mom statistic.” I feel like a warrior. A survivor. A woman mid-rebirth.

And here’s the truth bomb: I wouldn’t change any of it.

Because the woman I’ve become was built from every betrayal, every sleepless night, every bruise that healed into armor. She is stronger. Softer in the right places. Sharper in the places that matter. And she’s raising kids who know nothing but love, safety, and magic in their bones.

So when people talk down on single mothers, I just smile. Because I know what they don’t: this life didn’t end me. It crowned me.

This isn’t a ruin story—it’s a rebirth story. And this is only the beginning.

From my altar to yours,
Storm