I Became a Mother Before I Finished Becoming a Girl

I was 19 when I found out I was pregnant—my first and only semester in college, technically freshly out of high school. I wasn’t trying, and honestly, we weren’t 100% careful. I had this gut feeling something was off, even though I had taken Plan B that clearly didn’t work—or maybe I was already pregnant by the time I took it. That same day I bought Plan B, I also bought a pregnancy test because I thought maybe I was… pero you know, I had taken the Plan B.

A few hours later, I took the test and it was a quick positive with the two lines. I literally felt my heart fall down to my ass. I thought about everything—how I was going to tell him, my mom, what would happen with my future, being young, just knowing my life was about to change forever. I thought about the relationship too, because we had been together nearly two years.

I didn’t trust the first test completely, so I was glad the box came with two test. I saved the second one to take the next morning because I’d heard it was most accurate in the AM. I didn’t tell him and by him I mean my son's father about the first test. When I took the second test the next morning and it was positive again, the same emotions came over me. Now I was at home, stressed thinking of where to dispose of the test so my mom wouldn’t find it. I just texted him, “Can we see each other? I have something to tell you.”

He called immediately, frustrated when I tried to convince him to meet in person first. I had no choice but to tell him: I took a test, and it was positive. At first he questioned me—“Did you take Plan B?”—then spiraled into emotions about not being ready for a kid. Keep in mind, I was 19 and he was 25. I was like, “Ugh, what do you mean only your life is changing? I’m in college—my life is changing too!” I honestly don’t remember exactly how our first in-person interaction went after I told him. I cried for a few days and didn’t tell anyone at first. I was working at Macy’s, just trying to take it day by day.

My relationship with him wasn’t the best. We had different mentalities, ways of seeing things. He was living with his mom and his brother; I was living with my mom. One of his first reactions after finding out I was pregnant was going out with friends and got drunk. I remember he called me the next day hungover and we got into it because I was like, reality didn’t pause for him nor drinking was going to change the situation—I’m still pregnant. He tried to distract himself, but I couldn’t. 

I avoided telling my mom because our relationship wasn’t great and I was scared. I didn’t want to disappoint her, especially because she was never 100% approving of him. Now I understand why. You know that mom intuition? She would always tell me things and at first I thought she was just being a mom, meddling, but now I realize she really had my best interest at heart even if I couldn’t see it then.

She ended up finding out when a clinic sent a letter and she saw the envelope. “Are you pregnant?” she asked. I couldn’t deny it. Her attitude toward me shifted immediately — 21 questions back to back: Did you tell him? How did he react? How will he show up? All the mom questions.

A few months before giving birth, my mom kicked me out for something so dumb that wasn’t even about me being pregnant, but it showed how strained our relationship had been for years. The same day she kicked me out, I had already gotten into an argument with my baby's father before I got home just to get kicked out. I remember crying my eyes out, calling him over and over until he picked up just to tell him I had nowhere else to go. I had no option but to move in with him — at the worst possible time, while we were mad at each other. I still remember his friends standing outside the apartment as I walked in carrying my things, crying, humiliated, knowing I had just been kicked out and now had to live with him, his mom, and his brother.

That apartment was tiny—2 bedrooms. One for his mom, one for him and his brother. I hated it. I hated how his mom would look at me, how inconsiderate they all were. I only slept in a bed when both he and his brother worked night shifts; otherwise, I was on a sofa with my puppy Rocky. I was angry at the cycle, angry I couldn’t sleep comfortably. Had many arguments with him throughout my pregnancy because he wasn't there how I wish and him talking to other people while we were clearly together not because I was pregnant. Even writing this now, I want to text him and ask, “Did you ever feel bad for putting me through that?”

I felt lonely my whole pregnancy. I cried a lot. I was afraid. Expectations of being pregnant, of being a mother, of being in a relationship while carrying this life… it was a lot. His mom would smoke in the apartment even knowing I was pregnant. Later I found out she didn’t even believe the baby was her son’s.

October 28th, 2013 — my dad’s 9-year passing anniversary. I spent the whole day crying because he would never meet my son. I kept thinking that if he were still alive, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe I would’ve been living with him and not going through such a painful situation while pregnant. Mostly, I cried because I felt completely alone.

That night, my labor started.

Labor wasn’t easy. I told my baby’s father I needed to go to the hospital, but he was driving slower than ever while I sat there in pain. By October 29th I was in the delivery room, ready to give birth, but my body gave out on me. I passed out before I actually went into labor, and after giving birth I fainted again, waking up in an emergency operating room.

The only reason I’m still here is because my mom pushed me to sign the blood transfusion paperwork.

Going home was different. They had rented a new place for all of them — and now for us too. In that house, guess who had the master bedroom? Not us. His mom did. We were in a regular room, even though we needed more space for three people, but that was the reality of living with them.

My relationship with my son’s father still wasn’t good after I gave birth. He kept talking to other people outside the relationship, even telling them I slept in another room and that we weren’t together. I still remember the names and faces of the girls he flirted with — not because I care now, but because it hurt that deeply, especially after just having a baby and trying to build a family.

He paid the bills, but emotionally he wasn’t there and didn’t help with the small things. I remember going to pick up a pizza and him calling me because Michael had pooped and he refused to change the diaper since it was a dirty one. Moments like that showed me what I was really dealing with.

Most of the clothes I had were gifts from my mom or things I owned before moving in with him, not because he ever bothered to get me anything. Most of Michael’s clothes were things I bought while working at Macy’s.

I was exhausted and depressed. I probably had postpartum depression, but I still had to show up every day. I was angry, frustrated, sad, and scared.

Even through all the chaos and emotions, Michael made everything worth it. Even when I felt alone, raising him in a house with his dad and his family hovering around, it was still just me and him. The way he looked at me made the weight of everything disappear for a moment—but I was still carrying so much inside that I didn’t tell anyone. Who could I tell? I was just alone, and in that loneliness, I even hated myself. I hated how I put myself in that situation, how trapped I felt, and I couldn’t find a way out. I kept praying that things would get better, hoping someone was listening—even if it wasn’t God, maybe my dad, just something to give me the strength to not give up on life.

Most nights I could hardly sleep. Yet I tried to be careful, making sure my son’s father got rest because he had to pay the bills. His mom constantly made comments—saying I never cleaned or cooked—and I have this one memory where I was cornered by all three of them, bombarded by expectations and backhanded comments. I was living in enemy territory.

Now, Michael is 12, and he is the best part of my life. He’s the boy who, even in the hardest moments of my life, still looks at me with so much love and hugs me like it can fix the world. He doesn’t know it, but he’s grown up with me and has taught me more than I could have ever imagined. He’s my forever reminder that love can shine through even the darkest, loneliest times. 

I’m still healing. I’m still scared sometimes — scared of repeating the same story, scared of trusting, scared of pregnancy itself— but I’m no longer that 19-year-old girl who felt trapped and alone.

My body remembers, my heart remembers, but I also remember my strength.

I didn’t just give him life.
He gave me mine back.