On September 2, 2018, my life changed in the most profound way—I became a mother. It was the greatest gift I had ever received, a dream I had held close for as long as I could remember. Yet, despite that lifelong hope, the reality of motherhood had always felt distant and uncertain.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was swept into a whirlwind of emotions. Joy was quickly overshadowed by a deep, all-consuming fear—not just of becoming a parent, but of doing it alone. I hadn’t planned on being a single mom, and that realization hit hard. Fear triggered a cascade of emotions: detachment, anxiety, nervousness, and uncertainty. For nearly six months, I struggled to accept the reality of my pregnancy, unable to fully believe it was happening.

Then came the moment that would redefine my life forever. When I held my son for the first time—his tiny fingers wrapped around mine, his head resting on my chest—I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. In that instant, the truth sank in: this tiny human was a part of me. I had carried him, created him, and now he was here. That miracle alone could fill pages, but it was only the beginning of our story.

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Addiction, Motherhood, and the Storm That Followed

I’ve struggled with the disease of addiction for nearly half my life. I fought relentlessly to break free—years in and out of treatment centers, jails, and psychiatric hospitals left me feeling defeated and hopeless.

But finding out I was pregnant gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, I saw a chance—maybe my only real chance—to change everything. My son’s arrival wasn’t just a turning point; it was a lifeline. Holding him, I felt a sense of purpose I had never known before.

Still, nothing could have prepared me for how fragile recovery would be in those first weeks. After a complicated C-section with preeclampsia, the very medications prescribed to help me heal reignited the cravings I thought I had left behind. Addiction doesn’t care if it comes from a prescription or a street corner—it all lands the same. Slowly, quietly, the disease crept back in.

At the same time, postpartum depression hit. Within his first month of life, my son was hospitalized twice. He wouldn’t sleep unless he was in my arms. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and drowning under the weight of new responsibilities—starting a job, moving into our own place, juggling bills. I tried to keep going, but it all spiraled quickly.

I began leaving him with my mom just to escape to the casino for a moment of air. Anxiety led me to a doctor, who prescribed Xanax and other medications. At first, it felt manageable. But soon I was slipping—taking more than prescribed, being secretive again. Old habits. Old lies. That’s when I knew: it wasn’t just stress. The disease was back.

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The Hardest Choice

Within months of his birth, I faced a devastating truth: if I didn’t make a drastic change, I would lose everything. So I made the hardest decision of my life—I signed over guardianship of my son to a trusted family while I went into treatment.

It was the most painful choice I’ve ever made. Handing over my child felt like the ultimate failure, but it was also the only way to save us both. I promised myself that I would fight to be the mother he deserved, even if the path was long.

That path stretched on for nearly two years. Treatment, recovery, setbacks, and a custody battle that tested every ounce of my strength. There were nights I doubted I’d ever get him back. But I held on.

And then came the miracle.

On September 14, 2020, the judge terminated the guardianship. My son was mine again. That day, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders.

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What This Journey Taught Me

This road has taught me more than I can put into words:

• Gratitude — For God’s grace, for parents who never gave up, for a son who loves me unconditionally, and for a recovery program that keeps me grounded in spiritual principles.
• Fear and frustration — For the pain of not having a say in my child’s life and learning to walk through that with dignity, even when I felt powerless.
• Humility and self-acceptance — For finally learning that I am not less-than. That my failures don’t define me. That showing up for my son, one day at a time, is enough.

I could write endlessly about the lessons and miracles along the way. But the bottom line is this:

I stand in awe of who God has helped me become. I am living proof of His grace, of His power to restore. Today, my son and I live free—together, whole, and healed.

Recovery is possible. Miracles are real. And every day, I get to wake up to mine.