Dead ends, hidden treasures filled with a beautiful joy, and obstacles at any given moment. Motherhood has been a path that I have always feared to go down. I feared the not-so-smooth surface and pitfalls that would get in the way and possibly scare me to death.

Like every little girl, I dreamt of a perfectly structured future; I would attend the University of Washington in St. Louis and obtain a Ph.D with my high school sweetheart, marry, then birth four children: two boys and two girls. Then, I’d become rich and wealthy from award-winning books that I published all while residing with my family in Kenya, East Africa. Life would be perfect and I would never experience heartache and pain. I was indeed, invincible. Or so I thought.

Reality hit me like a freight train. I found out I was pregnant and the weight of responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders. My daughter’s father and I soon realized that there were no more carefree days of youth. Instead, I was thrust into the daunting world of single motherhood, otherwise known as being a “baby mama.”

I held on to my youthful dreams but I was conflicted with the new onset of motherhood. I was overrun and whatever dreams I harbored sat near the bottom of the totem pole. During this time, I also found myself trying to understand who I was and who I wanted to be, but motherhood was the priority so anything that I needed to understand about myself had to wait until later in life. That was no longer important.

Entering adulthood as a mother on the verge of parting ways from the father due to issues that we, even at that age, were still trying to comprehend was a path that I started to walk down with no preparation whatsoever. I didn’t understand who I was, but when I looked into my daughter’s hazel eyes, I knew that she saw me as her mother. However, my daughter had no idea that she was staring back into an empty shell. A full imposter.

By this time, I had experienced a violation so traumatic that I had refused to acknowledge it. Instead, I suppressed it and, in the meantime, I allowed it to suppress me. I erased myself, I erased my worth, and I almost erased my being because I didn’t know who I was anyways, right? At least I could still call myself a mother; childbirth gave me the right to do so.

When I had a chance to, I chose a vice, a vice that took me away from whatever I was at least for a moment. When I sobered up, I remained the empty, so-called mother who stole a title I was not ready for nor  worthy of. But when I looked into my daughter’s eyes, I was something to her, even if the world didn’t agree. I only felt valued when I looked into my daughter’s eyes. I had disappointed everyone I loved but I didn’t disappoint her. I was her “shero.”

With her, I was somebody. Without her, I was nothing, empty, worthless. Or so I thought. As I write this I am in tears, remembering the feeling of failure and worthlessness. But as a sunny day approached, I looked my daughter in her eyes and could hear a voice whisper, “Forgive yourself.” I was 25, and for seven straight years I saturated my environment with my own personal trash, my own doubts, my own fears, and my unforgiveness toward myself. I didn’t realize that I harbored hate for myself. I had to forgive myself for doubting myself as a woman and as a mother.

As I continue to stumble and trip down the scenic and clutter-filled path of motherhood, I am reminded that the higher being of God was in the spirit of my daughter that day and where it still remains. My daughter saved my life!

How has motherhood saved yours?