✨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

What I Learned From My Last Bad Day

There are days when motherhood feels magical — the hugs, the laughter, the little moments that make your heart explode. But then there are days when it feels like too much. My last “bad day” was one of those. I had all three of my kids running around the house, all needing me at once. I felt overstimulated, pulled in every direction, and in the back of my mind, that quiet voice whispered: Am I enough? Am I doing this right? Do my kids even realize how hard I try?

It’s easy to spiral on days like that, wondering if I’m failing them, if they’ll grow up wishing they had a “better” mom. But here’s the truth I realized — even on my worst day, it’s still their best day with me.

Because in the middle of my overwhelm, I looked up and saw my kids hanging on me, laughing with me, begging to do activities together. They weren’t judging me for being tired or overstimulated. They were just excited to be around me. They wanted to dress like me, talk like me, be near me. In their eyes, I wasn’t failing. I was still their safe place, their favorite person.

That moment shifted everything for me. Motherhood doesn’t ask me to be perfect, it just asks me to be there. My kids don’t need a flawless mom — they need me. They don’t remember the little frustrations, the messy house, or the chaotic moments. What they’ll remember is that I showed up, hugged them, played with them, loved them fiercely.

So what I learned from my last bad day is this: sometimes the way we see ourselves isn’t the way our kids see us at all. In their eyes, we’re already enough. We’re already the hero, the role model, the favorite person in the world. And that reminder is what helps me be kinder to myself, even on the messy days.

Moms — have you ever had a day where you felt like you were failing, only to realize your kids thought it was the best day ever?

From my altar to yours- Storm