Being a mother has always been something I wanted, but for reasons I’ve only recently begun to fully understand. When I was younger, I thought having a child would give me someone who would love me unconditionally — a love I craved but felt I never had. Growing up in foster care and the juvenile justice system shaped those feelings. I never felt truly loved or secure because I was constantly alone, running away, or stuck in situations that felt more like survival than care.
Ironically, I sometimes felt safer on the streets than in the foster homes or with the people who were supposed to take care of me. There was an emptiness I carried, a deep sense of being unseen and unloved, and I believed that motherhood might be the way to fill that void. Now that I’m older, I look at things differently. I can see how those feelings influenced my decision to have children young, and I think that, had I not grown up feeling so empty, I might have waited.
Having children at a young age made many things harder such as figuring out my career, pursuing higher education as a full-time college student, and learning how to take care of myself while taking care of my kids. But it also gave me something I didn’t expect: the chance to reclaim parts of my own childhood that were lost.
When I became a parent, I was determined to create the kind of home and traditions I never had. I started holiday traditions with my kids like building gingerbread houses at Christmas, handing out candy on Halloween, and making sure they experienced the magic and joy I missed out on. In a way, parenting gave me a second chance to experience childhood through their eyes. It was healing to see them happy and safe during the holidays, something I never knew when I was spending them with strangers, alone in a cell, or in a secure home.
Still, being a mother hasn’t erased the fears that come from my past. One fear has haunted me since the day I became a parent: losing my kids to the child welfare system. For someone like me who grew up feeling tossed around by systems that were supposed to help, the thought of my children being taken away feels like my worst nightmare. Even simple situations, like my kid getting hurt at the park, scare me. I know it’s normal for kids to get hurt, and I know I shouldn’t be scared because I’m not doing anything wrong, but that fear lingers anyway. It’s always there, whispering in the back of my mind, reminding me of the moments when systems stepped in and caused more harm than good. It’s a fear I carry with me every day, and there have been moments when it felt dangerously close to coming true.
I remember one instance vividly, and it still makes my heart race to think about. My mom and uncle got into an argument, and my mom called the police. Not wanting to get involved or questioned, I left the house. I thought I was protecting myself, avoiding a situation that could spiral out of control. My kids were safe at home with my mom, stepdad, and uncle, but that wasn’t how the police officer saw it. He reported me to the child welfare system for leaving without them. In that moment, it didn’t matter that they were surrounded by family and in no danger. That single report brought all my fears crashing down like a wave I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen if someone decided I wasn’t a good enough mother. The social worker came to my house, and I let her in and answered all of her questions. I did not know if I had a right to refuse letting her into my home, but I was too scared to find out what would happen if I didn’t.
Moments like that remind me how deeply systems can shape the lives of people who’ve already been through so much. My experiences in foster care and the juvenile justice system have made me fiercely protective of my children. I want to shield them from the pain I knew all too well — the kind of pain that leaves you wondering if you’ll ever feel safe or loved again. I work every day to give them what I didn’t have: a stable home, love without conditions, and the freedom to just be kids. They’ll never know what it’s like to feel unwanted or unseen, not as long as I have anything to say about it. My greatest hope is that they’ll grow up feeling secure in a way I never did, and that they’ll look back on their childhood with nothing but joy.
Being an advocate has pushed me to become someone my kids can look up to and be proud of. I want them to know that it’s not just okay to speak their minds — it’s necessary. I hope they grow up feeling confident enough to stand up for themselves and brave enough to stand up for others. One of my proudest moments as a mom was hosting a sign-making party at our home where my kids helped me create protest posters. Together, we turned our dining table into a space of creativity and purpose. Later, we took those posters to a protest, and they walked alongside me, raising their voices for change. Moments like that remind me why advocacy is so important, not just for me but for them too. I want advocacy and social justice to be part of who they are, values that guide them to make the world a better place for themselves and others.
Parenthood hasn’t been easy, but it has been transformative. It’s taught me resilience, shown me the importance of creating joy and stability, and pushed me to heal parts of myself I didn’t even realize were broken. I strive every day to be a mother my children can be proud of — someone who proves that even in the face of pain, love and hope can grow.
