I was maybe six or seven. It was Christmas time. My mum asked us to dance for her, something she used to do often. I was excited—I remember wanting to make her smile, to do something fun. But when I started dancing, she burst out laughing.
She told me I couldn’t dance. That I was terrible.
I remember freezing. The shame came so fast, like a slap. I felt stupid, small… like something inside me just folded in on itself. From that day on, I stopped dancing. I’d say “I don’t dance” to anyone who asked. But the truth is—I wanted to. I always wanted to. I just never wanted to feel that embarrassed again.
Years later, I told my child’s dad about that moment. I told him why I don’t dance. My mum happened to be around, and she laughed again. Said I was terrible, that none of her kids can dance, that we take after our dad—no rhythm. It stung. Again. Like that little girl who just wanted to be seen for trying was being laughed at all over again. And the worst part? She still thought it was funny.
My mum? She’s not a great dancer either. But she dances. Freely. She dances to express herself. Meanwhile, she robbed me of that very thing—expression. Joy. Freedom. I watched people dance and have fun growing up, but I couldn’t join. Not without thinking of that day.
I’ve always wanted to take a dance class, to reclaim it. But I’m scared. Scared the teacher will say I’m so bad they can’t help me. That I’m too far gone. That I don’t belong there either.
The only place I ever felt free dancing was at clubs with my queer friends. There was no pressure to be perfect—just vibes, laughter, freedom. No one cared if you were good or not. It felt safe. It felt like joy for joy’s sake. But around other Black people, I go still. I get too self-conscious. I worry about how I look, if I’m doing it right, if they’ll laugh.
That one moment… it silenced something in me. Something I still haven’t fully gotten back.
Today, my mother said something that set my soul on fire. She told me that in the future, she never wants to be involved in any “drama” again. That I should have my own place, that my man should have his own, and that I shouldn’t stay with a man unless he marries me.
And just like that, I felt her judgment once more. The familiar sting of her criticism, the belief that my choices were wrong. She said I needed to retrace my steps—go back, reassess what went wrong, and see how I ended up in this situation. It’s always easy to say “you should’ve done this” or “you should’ve done that.” But she doesn’t see the full picture. She doesn’t know the pain of walking through life always second-guessing yourself, always thinking you’re not enough, but still finding the strength to keep going.
When she said living together before marriage was a mistake, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’s next? Are you going to say I had the baby too soon, moved in too quickly? She said, “No, the baby isn’t a mistake,” and I wanted to believe her, but the words she didn’t say hit harder. I’ve never thought for a second that my daughter was a mistake. She saved me. She gave me life when I was standing on the edge. My daughter taught me what it means to truly fight for something, for someone.
But even when I said that, when I explained that every decision I made was based on the information I had at the time, she still couldn’t see. How could she? How could anyone understand the complexities of a situation when they’ve never walked in your shoes? I didn’t need to retrace my steps, because I’ve already done that a thousand times. What I needed was support, not judgment.
And when she accused me of punishing myself for him, that’s when the weight of it all started to feel unbearable. I’m not punishing myself. I’m taking a break—for me. I need a break from everything: from relationships, from heartache, from pressure. I need space to heal, to focus on my daughter and what’s best for her future. I’m not obsessed with finding a steady guy, and I told her that. If one comes along, great, but if not, I’ll be fine.
But of course, she couldn’t hear me. She just shut down, pretended to sleep, and left me with nothing but her silence.
I hate that she made me feel like I’m the one who’s failed. Like I’m the one who’s to blame for everything. I know she’s judged me for being with him—he’s not rich, not highly educated, doesn’t live in a big modern house. She’s always seen what he’s not, never what he is. But here’s the truth: I’ve sacrificed so much for her, taken care of her without hesitation, no questions asked. I’ve never sought recognition, never asked for anything in return. All I’ve ever wanted is empathy, support, and for someone to stand by me when I’m broken.
I’ve carried so much on my shoulders, for so long, that sometimes it feels like I’m drowning. I’ve given everything—time, money, energy—without a thought for myself. And now, when I need someone to just be there, when I’m exhausted and depleted, she turns away.
She’ll never be proud of me, I know that now. But what I can’t accept is how she judges me, how she belittles the choices I’ve made, when she’s been stuck in her own cycle of pain for so many years. She stayed in a marriage where she was constantly cheated on, a marriage that tore her apart, but she never left. She stayed because of what people would think, because of the shame, the fear of judgment. And yet here she is, telling me I should’ve done things differently.
I see it for what it is now—I am not her, and I don’t want to be. I won’t stay in something for the wrong reasons. I won’t make the same choices she did.
My daughter has shown me the kind of strength I never knew I had. She’s taught me what it means to fight, to stand tall, even when it feels impossible. I’ll keep fighting, for her and for myself, no matter who tries to bring me down.
Three years ago, I met the man of my dreams—or so I thought. He seemed kind, thoughtful, and everything I could ever want in a partner. For a while, I believed in the idea of us, in the possibility of building a life together. But even then, there was this quiet voice in the back of my mind telling me that love alone wouldn’t be enough. I wanted a child. I really did. But the reality of my situation, the weight of my debts, made me wonder how I could make it all work.
Then I found out I was pregnant. Despite the financial challenges, there was a rush of excitement. I wanted to be a mother, and the news filled me with a sense of purpose, even though the world felt heavy. I wasn’t prepared in the way society might expect, but in that moment, something shifted inside me. My daughter gave me purpose. She gave me life, a reason to keep fighting. I felt strength and courage I didn’t even know I had, and suddenly, I was standing on my own two feet, ready to bring this beautiful soul into the world.
Before I got pregnant, I had already been struggling with depression. I had taken time off work, trying to find some sense of balance, some way out of the darkness. But when I found out I was pregnant, I also found a new reason to fight. It wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about living for someone else, someone who needed me more than anyone ever had.
The early days of pregnancy were filled with uncertainty. Despite the love I felt for my unborn child, I couldn’t shake the weight of my debts and the fear of what the future might hold. But I pushed through. I had to. I started to feel something deep inside me—a shift, a quiet confidence that I would find a way to make this work. My daughter was going to be my everything.
When she was born, the reality of motherhood settled in. There were sleepless nights, moments of doubt, but also immeasurable joy. I had the baby I’d longed for, but things weren’t as simple as I’d imagined. His family, ever present, began pushing their own expectations on how we should raise our daughter. I wasn’t ready to bend, but he didn’t step in. He didn’t defend us. And the tension between his family’s demands and my desire to parent the way I thought best created a constant strain.
As the weeks turned into months, it became more apparent that his inability to set boundaries with his family was taking a toll. I felt alone in the battle. Alone in my desire to protect my child and create the family I envisioned. Every argument, every disagreement seemed to revolve around them. I couldn’t understand how the man I loved and trusted could prioritize their needs over mine, over the family we were trying to build. It hurt. Deeply.
There were moments when I thought I could walk away, when I felt like I was losing myself. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. I took time off, went home for a month, hoping to find some clarity. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’d return to a different situation. But when I came back, things hadn’t changed. The cracks were still there, and I was still hurting.
The turning point came with the new year. I was in a deep low again, my depression creeping back into my life. I took time off work, hoping for some support, for him to step up. But instead, he pulled further away. He lived his life, as if nothing was wrong. When I confronted him about it, the gaslighting began. He made me doubt myself, made me believe I was asking for too much.
Then, I found out the truth. The man I had loved, the father of my child, was cheating. The pain of it hit me like a wave, pulling the ground from beneath me. I told my family. I told my friends. But I didn’t confront him—not yet. I had to make a plan. I had to leave, but I wasn’t ready to walk away just yet. Not with the debts and financial strain weighing me down.
The more I watched him, the more I saw the lies, the deceit. I checked his phone and confirmed what I already feared—he was still seeing her. They had planned a trip together, and there he was, complaining about having to care for our baby. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt; it was the way he showed no respect for our daughter, for me. He let her cry, when we had both agreed we wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t just infidelity—it was cruelty, selfishness, and disregard for the family we’d created.
I was done. I knew in my heart that I couldn’t keep going like this. No matter what happened, I wasn’t going back to him. Even if the world ended, I wouldn’t go back to a man who had betrayed me, who had hurt me and our child. I was focused on what was next, on building a better future for us. I started to take it day by day, pushing forward for the sake of my daughter, for the sake of my healing.
I’m still healing. The sadness comes in waves, and some days it feels like the weight of it all is too much. But there’s also this strength I didn’t know I had—this fierce love for my daughter that keeps me moving. I’m focused on my future. I’m focused on what’s next. I’m working toward financial freedom, searching for a role that will give me the stability I need. And through all the hurt, through all the pain, I know that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was. I’m fighting for us. I’m fighting for me.
Not in a loud, messy way — but in the quiet, aching way that tells you something has shifted for good.
For a while now, I’ve been feeling the edges of it:
Small things, piling up like tiny stones pressing on my chest.
The way my home doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
The way decisions about my child are made without me, around me, over me.
The way “help” starts to feel more like control.
The way the atmosphere feels heavy — like I have to apologize for existing in my own life.
At first, I brushed it off.
I told myself I was overreacting, that I should be grateful.
That having help is better than doing it alone.
But somewhere deep inside, a voice kept whispering: Something isn’t right.
Today it became impossible to ignore.
Today I realized — the help came with a price.
And the price was my peace, my voice, my right to be the mother I am choosing to be.
It hit me how much of my upbringing is being replayed right here, in front of my eyes.
How fear was used to mold us.
How tidiness wasn’t about pride, but about punishment.
How respect was demanded, not earned.
How joy was rationed and wins were never simply celebrated — they were dissected, compared, measured, used to fuel someone else’s idea of “how things should be.”
And now, it’s happening again — but this time, it’s aimed at my child.
At the little girl I carried, birthed, nursed.
The little girl I promised would know a different kind of love.
The kind that sees her.
The kind that lifts her up without crushing her spirit.
I’m not crazy.
I’m not ungrateful.
I’m not overreacting.
I’m waking up.
And today, I decided: I will protect my peace and my daughter’s peace at all costs.
Even if it means making other people uncomfortable.
Even if it means being seen as the villain in someone else’s story.
Even if it means letting go of the illusion of closeness with someone I desperately wanted connection with.
Even if it means doing it alone for a while.
Because my daughter deserves a home built on love, not fear.
And I deserve a life where my voice matters — not just when it’s convenient for others.
Its been two months since I found out the man I thought I was building a life with had been cheating on me.
The heartbreak wasn’t just emotional — it felt like a thousand swords stabbing my heart all at once, over and over again.
Since then, I’ve been trying to exist inside a nightmare I can’t yet wake up from.
On the outside, it might look like I’m holding it together — navigating my complicated relationship with my mother, managing my home, raising my daughter — but inside, I’m still fighting waves of pain that come without warning.
Some days, like today, I even find myself laughing and smiling around him.
Not because the pain is gone — but because survival sometimes looks like choosing not to bleed in front of the person who wounded you.
I think back to the times when I would have curled up next to him on the couch after putting our daughter to bed.
But now, even in fleeting memories, the betrayal slices through any warmth I might feel.
I’ve moved on — I know that. I don’t want him back.
But moving forward? That’s the part that feels impossible some days.
Not because I’m stuck in love, but because the practical steps — finding financial stability, building a way out — take time.
It’s torture living under the same roof, watching him prepare himself for other women, watching him glow for them the way he couldn’t even pretend to for us.
And yet, every morning, I wake up and fight.
Because I have a little girl who deserves better.
I fight not for him, not even for the version of myself that he broke —
I fight for her.
Because if something were to happen to me, I need to know that I did everything in my power to protect her from a future where someone like him could ever hurt her.
Some days I feel like he’s a cancer, draining the very soul out of me.
I know that no simple stitches will fix what he’s done — my healing needs surgery, chemotherapy, an entire rebirth.
And still — I survive.
I breathe through the heartbreak.
I resist the urge to engage in his cruelty.
I choose silence when silence is safer.
I choose peace when my spirit aches for justice.
I’m carrying more than heartbreak.
I’m carrying the weight of breaking generational curses, of healing patterns that run deeper than anyone sees.
It feels like everything, all at once — and still, somehow, I float.
I survive.
I endure.
I keep showing up.
Not because it’s easy. Not because I don’t cry behind closed doors.
But because my daughter deserves a mother who fought for both of them.
I pray every day for a lifeline — for the day when someone sees the battle I’m fighting and says,
“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. We see you. We are here.”
Adulting & Motherhood 