She’s 21. A mother. In recovery. A survivor.

On the outside, maybe no one sees it—but inside, she’s holding the weight of a thousand quiet battles. One day at a time, she’s trying. Fighting. Surviving.

She’s been sober since March. That means something.

It means she’s choosing life, even when death feels easier.
It means she’s waking up and facing every sharp edge of grief and craving and memory—without using.
It means she’s doing the impossible… quietly.

She was with him for 7 years—since she was 14. He was 16 when they met. They grew up together, survived together, fell and got back up together. They were each other’s person. The kind of bond only people who’ve lived through hell hand-in-hand can understand.

On her 21st birthday, they found out they were going to be parents. That was the day everything shifted.

They decided to get clean—for their baby. For their future.

He was doing it. She was doing it.
But addiction is cruel and unforgiving.
He relapsed—just once—and it took him away.

On November 28, just weeks before they were supposed to celebrate 7 years, he died.

Their son was barely a month old.

Now, she’s left to hold it all: the grief, the guilt, the fear, the love, the baby, the past—and somehow, the future.

CPS is involved. The pressure is real. The stakes are crushing.
But still… she’s sober.

People see the methadone clinic, but they don’t see the ache in her chest when she picks up her son and sees his father’s smile in him. They don’t see how loud the silence is at night when the baby’s asleep and there’s no one to hold her pain.

She has no one to talk to about it. No one who understands the kind of love that was built in broken places. No one who gets how much it hurts to still be here while he’s gone.

There’s one photo—just one—of the three of them together.

It’s everything and not enough.

How does she explain this to her son one day? That his dad was beautiful, strong, and flawed? That he loved being a father more than anything in the world, and he tried—he really did? That sometimes, even love isn’t enough to beat the monster of addiction? That she stayed because of him? That she survived because of him?

Because that’s the truth. She’s still here.

Not just existing. Fighting.
And that makes her a mother. A warrior. A woman whose name is strength.

To you, if you’re reading this:

Your pain is valid. Your story is real. You don’t need to apologize for sharing it. You deserve to be heard and held, not judged. You’re doing the hardest thing in the world—grieving someone you loved while staying sober for someone you love just as much.

You are not weak. You are not broken. You are becoming.

One breath, one tear, one hour at a time.

And if no one’s said it to you today:
I see you.
I’m proud of you.
You are not alone.