Choosing Peace: A Young Mom’s Decision to Move Forward

 Looking back on the last few years of my life feels like flipping through chapters of a book I barely recognize myself in. I was young, hurting, overwhelmed, and constantly trying to save everyone but myself. I didn’t understand boundaries yet. I didn’t understand emotional maturity. And I definitely didn’t understand what it meant to choose people who actually chose me back.

In 2022, I was in a relationship with my firstborn’s father. At that time, I thought helping people meant fixing their pain — even if it cost me my own stability. When a group of people we knew were struggling during a blizzard, I drove across multiple states to bring them into our home. I thought compassion meant sacrificing everything. I thought love meant rescuing people.

What was supposed to be temporary support quickly became chaos. Mental health emergencies, hospital visits, and nonstop stress took over the environment. My partner and I were still basically kids ourselves — a 19-year-old girl trying to learn life and an 18-year-old boy working a part-time job. We weren’t equipped for any of it.

When I found out I was pregnant, everything hit harder. I was overwhelmed, scared, and trying to navigate a situation way bigger than us. We cracked under the pressure. I made decisions I regret — decisions that hurt people who didn’t deserve it, including my son’s biological father. I ran away with someone new. I was trying to find comfort in all the wrong places, and it cost me more than I ever imagined.

After my son was born, CPS got involved and took him. My relationship at the time was falling apart. I felt alone in a way I can barely describe.

One night, in a moment of loneliness and desperation, I reached out to someone from my past — someone I should never have let back into my life. I thought maybe mending old wounds would help me stabilize. Instead, that choice led to one of the worst nights of my life. I ended up hurt, scared, and not believed by the person I was with at the time. The situation spiraled until I had nowhere to go and no one on my side.

My vulnerability became an opening for manipulation. I was convinced to move in with someone who had already harmed me, and the cycle only got worse. By early 2024, the situation escalated enough that law enforcement got involved, and suddenly there I was — a young mom, a six-month-old baby, and several women displaced, homeless, and trying to survive.

I don’t need to relive every detail here. What matters is:

I survived. I got out. And I kept going.

Eventually, even in a marriage I never wanted, I found the strength to walk away. That moment changed everything. Leaving was messy, painful, and terrifying — but it was also the first decision I made for myself in a very long time.

I’ll be honest: on TikTok, I’ve shared my story loudly. Sometimes too loudly. I’ve mocked people who hurt me. I’ve called things out. I’ve tried to hold people accountable in ways that probably weren’t healthy or helpful. At the time, it felt justified. I thought maybe someone would eventually come forward with information to help me finalize things legally. I thought my voice would somehow force closure.

But sitting here on Thanksgiving, watching my little ones play, I realized something:

None of that noise is bringing me peace.

None of that drama is building the life I want for my kids.

And none of it is healing me.

My mom said something recently that stuck with me — that sometimes the strongest revenge is simply surviving and thriving. Living your life so fully that the past becomes powerless.

Another woman who went through something similar doesn’t speak on it at all anymore. She just lives. She posts about her hobbies, her growth, her joy. And there’s something really powerful in that silence — not fear, not avoidance, just peace.

And I’m starting to wonder if maybe that’s the direction I need to move toward too.

I don’t know the exact timeline of when I’ll stop talking about the past. Trauma doesn’t disappear on command. But I do know this:

I want to be the mom who chooses peace over pain.

I want to be the woman who heals instead of reopens wounds.

I want my kids to grow up watching me rise, not watching me fight ghosts.

So maybe this is the beginning of stepping out of the storm and into something calmer — something safer, healthier, and finally about us.

I can’t rewrite what happened.

But I can choose what comes next.

And I choose forward.