Teen Mom: The Journey That Shaped Me

The struggles, the growth, the therapy, the wine (then no wine), and where I am today

Let’s rewind: I became a mom at 19. Yep. Nineteen. While my peers were off figuring out dorm life and what kind of vodka paired best with ramen noodles, I was figuring out how to afford diapers, pay medical bills, and survive sleepless nights… all while navigating an abusive relationship and trying to convince myself I wasn’t completely drowning.

I was excited when I found out I was pregnant — but also scared out of my mind. My boyfriend at the time was too far gone in drugs and alcohol to show up emotionally. My parents let me move back in, but let’s just say… the vibe was more “well, you made your bed, now lie in it” than “let’s help support this young mother.” They babysat, they gave me a roof, but emotionally? Nada. It was lonely.

And then — curveball. My daughter was born with a cleft lip and palate. Do you know how isolating and terrifying it is to face that at 19 with zero emotional support? I had no one. No partner, no true friends, and no idea how I was going to emotionally and financially manage the surgeries, appointments, and pure weight of it all. Oh, and let’s not forget the abusive boyfriend cherry on top. Neat.

So what did I do? I threw myself into “mom mode.” My entire identity vanished into motherhood. I lost who I was before I ever really got to know her. I buried my pain and powered through. Strong on the outside, emotionally bankrupt on the inside — it became my normal.

And here’s the hard truth: I made a lot of mistakes in those early years of parenting. I was a kid myself — aching to find my identity, desperate to feel like a 21-year-old just having fun. I didn’t have the support system I needed to allow me the space to grow into the woman I am now while still being a kid. And listen — having a child when you’re still a child is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Do I regret my daughter? Absolutely not. In fact, I thank her for saving my life. If she hadn’t come along, I have no doubt I would’ve slipped into the same destructive cycle that took so many others down — drugs, alcohol, barely living, just numbing. She gave me a reason to rise up when all I wanted to do was disappear. She was my lifeline before I even knew I needed one.

I didn’t finish college. I didn’t have some flourishing career. I worked whatever jobs I could find just to stay afloat. And any dreams I had? They were filed under “maybe someday” and left to collect dust.

But the pressure to perform, to keep going, to raise a tiny human without messing it all up was crushing. I had no room to fail. So I coped the only way I knew how: I drank. Not at first. But eventually, alcohol became my escape, my silence button, my pretend-it’s-all-fine companion.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t help.