Standing in the aisles of Target during the holidays feels bittersweet now. My sixteen-year-old daughter’s Christmas list fills my phone screen, an iPhone, AirPods, a MacBook and I’m already bracing my bank account for the hit. I want to give her everything she wants, everything she deserves. But it hasn’t always been this way.
Back in 2004, I was eighteen years old when two pink lines on a pregnancy test changed my life forever. I had just moved into my first apartment, chasing freedom, juggling a low paying call center job, and trying to hide a growing addiction. I thought I had life all figured out. I was wrong.
I had dropped out of high school and was living with a roommate who was ten years older. She introduced me to heroin. For days, I refused her offers. I told her I’d never touch that stuff. But one afternoon, I gave in. That single choice pulled me into a world I wasn’t ready for.
When my mom told me I might be pregnant, I laughed it off. I was sure she was wrong. But when I saw those two pink lines, everything stopped. I sat in that tiny pink bathroom and felt my whole world shift. I was scared, addicted, and completely unprepared to become someone’s mother.
Still, I made one clear decision, I was keeping the baby. Maybe this was God’s way of giving me a reason to get clean.
The baby’s father was a man I barely knew, someone I met one night while drinking. When I told him I was pregnant, he denied it and walked away. I had no choice but to accept that I was doing this alone.
I moved back in with my parents and leaned on them completely. When my daughter, Emily, was born in June 2005, I felt a kind of love I didn’t know existed. I remember holding her for the first time and realizing that no matter how broken I was, she was mine. My step-dad would buy her the good diapers, even when money was tight. My mom helped me through sleepless nights. For a while, we made it work.
As Emily grew, I realized I needed to do more than just survive. I was a high-school dropout with no job, no car, and no plan. I couldn’t let her grow up seeing me fail. So I made a choice to start over. I earned my GED, moved into a maternity home for single mothers, and found my first steady job.
We had almost nothing, a few boxes of clothes, a pack of diapers, and food stamps that barely covered the basics. But we had each other. I still remember walking into our small one bedroom apartment, telling Emily, “This is our new home.” She ran around the empty rooms, laughing. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.
I worked long hours, rode buses in freezing weather, and studied at night. Some days I succeeded, and some days I failed. But I never gave up.
By the time Emily was five, I had a career in sales and was thriving. For the first time, I felt proud of myself. But even then, addiction wasn’t done with me. When Emily was four, I slipped into another cycle, this time with painkillers. I’d hide under the covers for days, sick and ashamed, wondering how I’d ever stop.
Each time I fell, it was Emily’s face that pulled me back up. Her laugh. Her little voice calling me “Mom.” That love saved me.
Eventually, I went to treatment and fought hard to stay clean. It wasn’t quick or easy, I relapsed more than once. But I kept getting back up. I found therapy, faith, and strength in exercise. By the time Emily turned thirteen, I had been clean for years.
Now, the gym is our thing. We laugh, lift weights, and talk about everything. She’s honest about how hard those early years were. Once, she told me, “It’s weird to think there was a time I hated you.” That hurt, but it was also proof of how far we’ve come.
At night, she still climbs into my bed to talk about her dreams and the boys she likes. Soon, she’ll graduate high school and head to college. I’ll help her buy her first car and take her dorm shopping.
There was a time when I didn’t think we’d make it this far, when the weight of addiction, poverty, and shame felt too heavy to carry. But today, I look at her and see everything I ever hoped to be reflected in her smile.
We still argue over clothes and chores, but every day I’m reminded that we survived. We rose out of the chaos and built something beautiful.
We went from a tiny one bedroom apartment to a life filled with laughter, stability, and hope. And as I get ready to buy our first home, I know this much is true, we made it.
