More Than My Hardest Chapter

I’m Still Allowed to Be More Than This

For a long time, I think my story has sounded the same.

Not because it isn’t real.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
But because pain, when it sits with you long enough, starts to echo.

And I don’t want to just echo anymore.

This is still my life. This is still my reality. I’m still the daughter who grew up visiting her dad in a place that was never meant for raising a child. I’m still navigating a system that moves slower than it should, hoping for outcomes I can’t fully speak on yet.

But I’m also… more than that.

I’m a mom.

And not just in the “I have a child” kind of way—but in the this little human completely reshaped my world kind of way.

I’m raising the most amazing little boy.
The kind who laughs with his whole body, who asks questions about everything, who sees the world in a way that reminds me to slow down and actually live in it.

He doesn’t know the weight of everything I carry—and I try really hard to keep it that way.
Because to him, I’m just mom.
The one who shows up. The one who listens. The one who makes things feel safe.

And that means everything to me.

There are days I look at him and think about how different his childhood will be from mine… and that alone pushes me to keep going. To do better. To be better. To create something softer, steadier, and full of the kind of love that feels secure.

He’s not just part of my story—
he’s the reason I’ve learned how to rewrite it.

I’m also a nurse.

And that part of me runs deeper than I think I even realized at first.

There are days I walk into work carrying my own thoughts, my own stress, my own life… and then I step into someone else’s hardest moment. Someone detoxing. Someone scared. Someone at a breaking point. Someone who just needs another human being to treat them like they matter.

And I do.

Even when I’m tired.
Even when my mind feels full.
Even when I’m running on empty.

Because being a nurse—especially in the kind of environment I started in—taught me how to see people beyond their worst day. It taught me patience. It taught me empathy in a way that you can’t fake. It taught me how to sit with people in uncomfortable, messy, real moments and not turn away.

And in a strange way… it’s helped heal parts of me too.

It’s shown me strength I didn’t know I had.
It’s reminded me that even on days I feel overwhelmed, I’m still capable of showing up—for other people, and for myself.

And lately… I’ve been realizing something.

I’m allowed to have joy.

Not the kind of joy that ignores reality.
Not the kind that pretends everything is okay.
But the kind that exists alongside it.

The kind that shows up in small moments—
like laughing in the car over nothing with my son,
or hearing his voice tell me about his day like it’s the most important story in the world,
or catching myself smiling at how safe and happy he feels in the life I’m building.

I used to feel guilty for those moments.

Like if I allowed myself to feel good, even for a second, I was somehow forgetting everything that still isn’t right.

But that’s not true.

Me finding peace in pieces doesn’t take away from what I’m fighting for.
It doesn’t make me less loyal.
It doesn’t make my story any less important.

If anything—it makes me stronger.

Because I’m not just surviving anymore.
I’m building something.

A life that isn’t only defined by what happened to my family…
but by what I’m creating for my son…
and the person I continue to become through it all.

And maybe that’s where this shift is coming from.

I don’t want to just tell the same story over and over again—even if it’s valid.
I want to tell my story as it’s still unfolding.

The messy parts.
The hopeful parts.
The in-between moments where I’m figuring it out as I go.

Because there’s more to me than the hardest thing I’ve been through.

And there’s a little boy watching me prove that every single day.