Co-parenting is supposed to be about balance. It’s supposed to be about the child—their well-being, their security, their ability to feel loved and supported in both homes. I know this because I have lived it, in two completely different ways.
On one side, there’s my co-parenting relationship with my daughter’s father. It wasn’t always easy. In fact, for a long time, it was difficult and strained, full of hurt feelings and unspoken frustrations. But we pushed through that, because at the end of the day, she mattered more than our history. We have built something healthy. We communicate. We respect one another. We trust each other to make the right choices for her, even when we don’t always agree.
And nothing solidified that progress more than the moment I held my daughter’s baby sister in my arms for the first time.
It was a moment that could have been awkward, could have been tense—but it wasn’t. Instead, it was full of warmth and trust. Her father and his partner allowed me into that space, welcoming me to share in their joy, to celebrate this new little life that would forever be part of my daughter’s world. And in that moment, I felt something profound—this is what it means to truly co-parent. To put the past aside, to acknowledge that family doesn’t always fit into neat little boxes, and to recognize that love is something we choose to extend, rather than something limited by circumstance.
Then, there’s the other version of co-parenting—the one that is nothing like this.
In this other dynamic, there’s no real partnership. Instead of working together, it feels like a power struggle. It’s about control, about winning, about being right—when it should be about the children. It’s a version of co-parenting that’s dictated by who gets to call the shots, who holds all the cards, who can make things harder just because they want to.
It’s jarring, to live both experiences at the same time.
On one hand, I know what healthy co-parenting looks like. I know what it’s like to navigate tough conversations with mutual respect, to trust another person with our child, to not feel like I have to fight just to be heard. It reminds me that even when co-parenting is tough, it can still be functional. It can still be rooted in love.
But on the other hand, I also know what it’s like to watch someone weaponize parenthood. To see decisions being made not out of love for the child, but out of a desire to control the other parent. I know what it’s like to watch a parent expect everything to go their way, while still relying on the very person they claim to despise.
This contrast has highlighted so much for me. It’s made me even more grateful for the co-parenting success I have with my daughter’s father. It’s given me perspective on my own growth, on how much effort it takes to create a healthy dynamic, and on how much self-awareness is needed to truly prioritize the child.
I wish both of my boys had the same co-parenting experience my daughter does. They deserve the stability, the respect, and the teamwork that comes from two parents actually working together.
But instead, I see the dysfunction, the games, the lack of accountability. And I can’t fix it. I can only stand beside the man I love and try to help him navigate it, while giving those boys as much love and stability as I possibly can.
I am my daughter’s mother. And I am my boys’ bonus mother.
And standing in the middle of these two drastically different co-parenting experiences has solidified everything I believe about what real parenting should look like.
Category: My Journey
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A Tale of Two Co-Parenting Journeys
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Sacred Patience: A Love in Limbo
When I first met Charlie, he was raising two boys on his own, navigating single parenthood with a strength and patience that astounded me. I was told the divorce would be finalized in September. That was months ago. Now, as February approaches, nothing has changed. No movement. No resolution. Just an ongoing, exhausting cycle of waiting.
It feels unfair—deeply, painfully unfair.
I am frustrated for the boys, stuck in a system that does not prioritize their safety or well-being. Family court is supposed to protect children, to ensure they have stability and care. Instead, it allows delays, manipulations, and drawn-out battles that serve only the adults who abuse the process. The people who should be shielding them from harm are instead fighting over them like possessions, and the legal system allows it.
I am frustrated for Charlie, a man who should be free from the grasp of someone who has done nothing but cause pain. He should not have to endure continued emotional abuse from a person who should no longer have a claim to his life. I watch him suffer through every court date, every interaction, every unreasonable demand, and it breaks my heart. Love means wanting peace for the person you care about most, and I want peace for him. I want him to be able to close this chapter, to move forward, to breathe. But he can’t. Not yet.
I hurt for my own daughter, too. She should never have been caught up in this mess. When her father and I split, it wasn’t easy, but we worked through the hardship, set aside the bitterness, and figured out how to co-parent without toxicity. That journey wasn’t perfect, but we arrived at a place where she now has two parents who support her, who don’t weaponize her, who want what’s best for her above all else. She has peace.
I wanted that same peace for Charlie’s children. I still do.
And then, there is my own heart—the dream I have carried since I was a little girl. I always imagined my wedding, surrounded by family and friends, sharing my joy and my commitment with the people I love most. I always wanted to be a wife, just as much as I wanted to be a mother. But that dream is held hostage by a mistake Charlie made years ago—by a marriage to someone who refuses to let go, who drags this process out with cruelty and calculation.
It’s not fair.
Patience is supposed to be a virtue, but when does it become self-sacrifice? How long do you wait for what should have already been yours? I don’t have the answers. I only know that I love this man, and I love these children, and that love is worth waiting for—even when it feels like the waiting is endless. -
Guardian of Light: Watching Him Rise
Readers, I’d like to share with you the story of an incredibly resilient and brave young man.
The first time I met this young man was at one of his baseball games. It was a warm spring evening, and I came prepared with snacks and drinks to support him, his brother, and his dad. He didn’t have to say anything, but he looked me in the eye and thanked me for bringing him a snack, even though we had just met. That moment stuck with me. His politeness and gratitude were genuine—a stark contrast to the behavior I’ve witnessed from his biological mother since that day.
Over the past 10 months, I’ve had the privilege of watching him grow and mature, despite the unimaginable challenges he has faced. He’s a living testament to resilience, navigating life’s upheavals with grace and strength far beyond his years. From the beginning, it was clear to me that he was someone special, someone who deserved all the love and stability that a family could provide.
His story is one marked by instability and a lack of control over some of the most formative decisions in his life. As a young child, he was taken away from his biological father and placed with extended family while his mother focused on her military career. At four years old, his mother introduced him to a new stepfather and made the decision to tell him that this man was his real dad—a story he believed for years. It wasn’t until he was 10, during a CPS case, that the truth finally came out, and he met his biological father for the first time that he could remember.
Despite these upheavals, he carries himself with a remarkable grace. He has his moments—he’s a preteen, after all—but he’s kind, thoughtful, and incredibly self-aware. He’s shown empathy in ways that continue to amaze me, like teaching his younger brother how to take slow, deep breaths when he’s upset. He’s even apologized on his own for behavior he felt crossed a line, without any prompting. He’s not just a “good kid.” He’s an extraordinary young man.
For Christmas this year, I wanted to give him a gift that symbolized everything I see in him: his strength, his worth, and the bright future I know he has ahead. I found a bracelet with an engraved message, a simple but heartfelt token meant to remind him that he is loved and supported unconditionally. It reads:
“Never forget how much I love you. As you grow older, you will face many challenges in life, just do your best. Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s all about learning how to dance in the rain.”
To me, this was more than a gift. It was a promise that, no matter the past or the obstacles ahead, he has people in his corner who love him and believe in him.
Unfortunately, even something as simple as this has become a point of contention. His mother expressed to him that she had “a problem” with the gift. I can’t imagine what part of a message of love and encouragement could be seen as an issue. But what truly breaks my heart is that she told him this. It wasn’t about the bracelet itself; it was about sending a message of negativity to her own child regarding a gesture meant to uplift him.
How do you explain that kind of behavior to a 12-year-old? How do you counteract the damage it might cause without disparaging his mother in the process? These are the questions I wrestle with as I try to support him through it all.
This young man deserves so much more than what life has handed him thus far. He deserves stability, love, and the chance to just be a kid without having to navigate adult-sized conflicts. Watching him grow despite all of this is inspiring, but it also fills me with a deep sense of responsibility. I want to be part of the foundation he can rely on, a constant in his ever-changing world.
After 10 months, I view him as my bonus son. He and his brother are my boys, and I love them just as much as any mother would. While I respect his biological mother’s rights, I will always be here to step up in any way she chooses to step down.All I can really do for him now, is offer unconditional support. I hope that he continues to grow and mature into the impressive, kind, and considerate man that I know he will become. I hope that he remembers his dad and I are always here for him, regardless of anything that may happen. I hope he never forgets that he has a safe space to call his own here.
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Hope and Love: A Story of Sisterhood
This week has marked a beautiful new chapter in my daughter’s life. Her father and his girlfriend just welcomed a precious baby girl into the world—my daughter’s first sister. It’s a moment of pure joy, and my heart swells with pride for how gracefully my daughter is stepping into her new role as a big sister. She’s so excited, and honestly, I can’t imagine a better big sister for this little one.
As I reflect on this new addition to our extended family, I can’t help but feel an immense sense of pride—not just in my daughter, but in myself as well. Co-parenting hasn’t always been an easy road, but we’ve come so far over the years. There were moments of frustration, moments of doubt, moments where it felt like we’d never reach common ground. But we pushed through. We put our daughter first, and today, we have a co-parenting relationship that I’m genuinely proud of.
Seeing my daughter’s excitement and watching this blended family grow brings me so much happiness. It’s a reminder that love expands in the most beautiful ways, and that family doesn’t have to fit into any one mold.
But alongside that happiness is a quiet ache—a longing I can’t ignore. I’ve longed to have another baby myself, longed to give my daughter a sibling. It’s a dream I’ve held close to my heart for so long, and yet it feels so uncertain. Will I ever have another child? Will I ever hold a newborn of my own again? These questions weigh on me, even in moments of joy like this.
Life is complicated that way. It’s possible to feel overwhelming happiness for others while simultaneously feeling a deep sadness for yourself. Both emotions can coexist, and both are valid. I’m learning to hold space for both—to celebrate this incredible moment in my daughter’s life while honoring the emotions that surface within me.
For now, I’ll focus on the joy. I’ll focus on the way my daughter’s eyes light up when she talks about her new sister. I’ll focus on the pride I feel for the co-parenting relationship we’ve built, for the family we’ve created in the midst of life’s twists and turns. And I’ll hold onto hope—hope that my story isn’t finished yet, that my dreams of expanding my family might still come true.
For now, though, I’m content to soak in this moment, to celebrate this new chapter, and to watch my daughter shine in her role as a big sister. Because at the end of the day, this is what matters most: love, family, and the hope that carries us forward.
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When Work Takes Everything: Struggling to Find Myself Again
I’m at a crossroads I never thought I’d face. Every fiber of me wants to quit my job and walk away from the stress and anxiety it causes me. But in my personal life, I can’t afford not to be gainfully employed right now. My partner and I have dreams of buying a home later this year or the next, and he’s in the midst of a high-conflict divorce and custody battle. To support him and our future, I need to stay employed.
But the mental toll this job is taking on me is suffocating. Each day, I feel like I’m slipping further from who I am. I respect my coworkers who have more experience than I do, but I can’t understand why they treat me the way they do. I try to show up, to learn, to work hard, but no matter how much effort I put in, it seems like it’s never enough.
I leave my home at 6:45 in the morning just to make sure I’m on time. I clock out around 6:00 in the evening. By the time I get home, I feel like a shell of myself—exhausted, drained, and barely able to function. My bond with my children feels like it’s slipping away, and my sense of self feels like it’s eroding little by little with every passing day.
I’m lucky if I can find time to shower or eat. My body is paying the price for the stress, with constant GI issues and anxiety that weighs heavier every single day. Even though I’m meeting with my psychiatrist regularly and being very honest, it’s as if nothing can quiet the storm inside me.
I feel like I’m doing everything I can to hold it together, but it’s not enough. And as much as I want to be strong—for my partner, for my kids, for the future we’re trying to build—I feel like I’m crumbling.
I don’t know what else I can do. I feel lost and hopeless, like I’m drowning and no one even sees it. All I want is a chance to breathe, to heal, to be present for my family and for myself. But for now, I’m stuck in this cycle, trying to figure out how to make it through one day at a time.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt this way, know that I see you. I feel it too. And maybe, just maybe, together we can find a way forward. -
When Love Lives in Limbo
Relationships are complicated. Anyone who’s been in one knows this universal truth. But what happens when you meet someone who is everything you’ve been searching for—kind, loving, supportive—except for one glaring issue: he’s still married to someone else? What do you do then?
This question might sound absurd to some, but for others, it’s a very real and painful reality. Before we dive deeper, let’s clear the air: this isn’t about being the “other woman” or sneaking around in secrecy. This is about being with someone whose marriage, for all intents and purposes, has already emotionally ended, even if it hasn’t ended legally.
For some, the answer might seem obvious: leave. After all, societal norms tell us that marriage is sacred and until the paperwork is signed, being with someone married is unacceptable. But life isn’t black and white. It exists in the gray areas, where emotions, circumstances, and human complexity muddy the waters of “right” and “wrong.”
Love in the Gray Area
You’ve met this person, and he tells you his marriage is over. Maybe there’s a toxic history, maybe they’ve been separated for years, or maybe the ink isn’t dry on the divorce because of legal delays or financial entanglements. It’s not as simple as signing a piece of paper—at least, not for him. And for you? You’re left wondering if his current marital status invalidates everything else you feel about him. Does that one word—married—erase his kindness, his loyalty, his love for you?
This is where the gray area begins.
You might tell yourself: We aren’t doing anything wrong. The love between us is real. He isn’t living a double life. He’s choosing me every day, emotionally and physically. So why does a legal status overshadow the reality of our bond?
But you also know the world doesn’t see it that way. You’re judged, labeled, and forced to ask yourself hard questions. Are you supporting him in avoiding accountability, or are you standing by someone who is navigating an impossible situation? Are you building a foundation for a future, or are you standing in the way of closure for his past? And perhaps the hardest question: if you stay, how long can you wait for him to fully break free from that marriage?
The Weight of Waiting
Waiting for someone to finalize a divorce can be exhausting, both emotionally and mentally. It’s easy to feel like your relationship is stuck in limbo, defined not by your love but by someone else’s paperwork and lingering connections. You might wonder if it will ever be over, if the promise of a life together will ever come to fruition.
For many, the hardest part of waiting isn’t the judgment of others—it’s the doubt that creeps in late at night. If this man is committed to you, why hasn’t he finalized the divorce? Is he truly ready to leave that chapter behind, or is he holding on for reasons you can’t fully see? The weight of waiting is as much about trust as it is about time.
The Question of Self-Worth
Then there’s the ultimate question: if the only thing wrong with him is that he’s married, why does it feel like so much more? The truth is, being with someone married—even if they’re separated or estranged—tests your self-worth in ways you never expected. You may start to wonder if you’re compromising your own values or settling for less than you deserve. You ask yourself:
Am I okay with being patient for something that should already be resolved?
Do I trust him to choose me completely when the time comes?
How long am I willing to wait for someone who isn’t entirely free to commit?
The answers to these questions aren’t easy. They require a level of honesty and reflection that can be deeply uncomfortable. But they also provide clarity.
Choosing Love, or Choosing Yourself?
Ultimately, the decision to stay with a man who is still married boils down to what you can live with. Can you live with the judgment? The waiting? The uncertainty? Or do you believe love is worth navigating these murky waters for a future you believe in?
If you choose to stay, it’s important to set boundaries and expectations. Talk about timelines. Discuss what his commitment to you looks like, and make sure your needs are being met along the way. But if you choose to leave, know that you are not abandoning love—you are prioritizing yourself. And that is a powerful act of self-care.
Because at the end of the day, love is about more than emotion. It’s about trust, respect, and partnership. If the only problem with your man is that he’s married, then it’s not just about him. It’s also about what you’re willing to accept, and what you’re willing to fight for.
And sometimes, the hardest truth of all is realizing that love alone may not be enough. -
Mothering Beyond Biology: A Bond Grown in Our Hearts
There’s a little boy who has stolen my heart. He has a wild, crazy personality that keeps me on my toes, and the most beautiful eyes—just like his daddy’s. Every day with him is an adventure, and his excitement for life is absolutely contagious.
One of my favorite moments with him is when the world is still quiet. Early in the morning, when his daddy and my daughter are still asleep upstairs, it’s just the two of us early birds. We settle onto the couch, PBS Kids playing softly in the background, his tiny self snuggled into me while I sip my coffee. Those moments are calm and precious—a stark contrast to the whirlwind energy he brings when he’s up and running. I need my caffeine to keep up with him, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I love how he lights up when he discovers something new. He yells my name with so much pride and excitement, ready to share his latest finding with me. It’s moments like these, when his joy becomes my own, that remind me of how lucky I am to be a part of his world.
He’s not my biological child, but he is my son in every way that matters. My love for him didn’t come all at once; it grew, deepened, and taught me so much along the way. My firstborn made me a mom, and this boy made me a bonus mom. Both are experiences I treasure, though neither journey was easy. Each has shaped me into the person I am today, and both are worth every struggle and sacrifice.
My kids are my whole world. They are the reason I keep pushing through, no matter what challenges come our way. My love for them is endless, and my hopes for their futures are even greater. For him, I dream of a life that’s brighter than anything we’re working through now. I hope he grows up knowing just how much he’s loved and how much he means to everyone around him.
Being his bonus mom has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. He’s wild, curious, and full of life, and I’m so grateful to be along for the ride. No matter what, I’ll always be here, cheering him on, celebrating his discoveries, and loving him with all my heart. -
Cracks in the Foundation: Rebuilding in Less Than Solid Circumstances
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the cracks in things—the spaces where chaos seeps in and everything feels heavy, fragile, and on the brink of shattering. But then, in those same cracks, there’s light. There’s hope. And sometimes, the very act of surviving feels like an act of rebellion against all that threatens to break you.
My life has been a strange balancing act lately, teetering between holding everything together and letting some things fall apart. Kids throwing up at 6 a.m. while I’m half-asleep and searching for Pedialyte, their little faces pale and trusting. Custody exchanges that feel more like battles than parenting partnerships, where the air is so thick with tension I can barely breathe. Workdays where I hold a dying patient in my arms while the outside world clamors for my attention, each notification on my phone another reminder that the chaos isn’t confined to one place.
And then there’s him. The man I love, who carries his own weight of the world but still tries to share mine. Sometimes I see him retreat into himself, a fortress built from years of betrayal and disappointment. I want so badly to storm those walls, to tell him it’s safe now, that love can be soft and steady, not sharp and fleeting. But trust is earned, not demanded, and every time he lets me in, even just a little, it feels like a victory against all the brokenness that came before me.
I’m tired. God, I’m so tired. There are nights where I lay awake and wonder how much more I can take. Nights where the worry coils around my chest so tightly I can barely breathe. Will she bring him back safely? Will the judge see the truth? Will the children I love so fiercely grow up to understand how hard we fought for them, how much we sacrificed to give them the stability they deserve?
And yet, even in the exhaustion, there’s this defiant little ember in me that refuses to go out. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s madness. Or maybe it’s hope, clinging to me like the name I gave my firstborn daughter—a reminder that even when everything feels impossible, there’s still something worth fighting for.
The thing about chaos is that it demands to be seen. It roars and shakes and tears at the edges of your life until you have no choice but to face it. But hope—it whispers. It waits. It’s in the tiny, quiet moments: a child’s laugh, a partner’s soft smile, the sunrise after a long night. Hope doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful. It just needs to exist.
So here I am, in the space between chaos and hope, holding onto both with everything I have. Some days, the chaos feels stronger. Some days, hope wins out. But every day, I get up and try again, because that’s what love does—it fights, it heals, it holds on. And I have so much love. For my kids. For my partner. For myself.
The cracks in my life will always be there, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe the cracks are where the light gets in. Maybe they’re where hope lives. -
Motherhood: A Role You Earn, Not Just a Title You Claim
When reflecting on the challenges my family has faced, it’s hard to ignore the pain caused by one individual who has impacted us in ways I can only describe as deeply unfair and profoundly hurtful. Long before I entered the picture, her actions left scars on the people I love, creating a ripple effect of struggle, heartbreak, and mistrust.
The most painful part is seeing the impact on my partner. He is a kind, resilient, and deeply loving man, but the weight of what he endured has made it difficult for him to open up and trust in goodness again. The harm she caused him wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, psychological, and systemic.
The abuse still echoes in his life, shaping the way he sees the world and how he interacts with it. It’s hard to help someone heal from that level of invalidation and injustice, especially when society so often turns a blind eye to the struggles of men in abusive relationships. Watching him carry the burden of that pain while trying to be the best father, partner, and person he can be is both heartbreaking and inspiring.
But the pain didn’t start there. Before she hurt my partner, she deeply hurt someone else. By ripping a child away and disappearing, she robbed a man of the opportunity to be a father. She gave that role to my partner, only to now try to take that away from him too. It’s a cycle of control and harm, and the impact it’s had on the soft-hearted young man at the center of it, is hard to fathom.
As a human being, it’s devastating to see how these actions have shaped the lives of the family I now call my own. The instability, the confusion, and the emotional weight of these decisions are burdens no one should have to bear. Watching them navigate these challenges with strength and resilience is inspiring, but it’s a constant reminder of the unfairness of it all.
For me, stepping into this dynamic was overwhelming at first. It was hard to reconcile the stories of the past with the present challenges we face. The manipulation, the control, and the disregard for others’ feelings—these are things I’ve witnessed firsthand. And while I’ve done my best to approach these situations with compassion and understanding, there are times when the anger and sadness feel overwhelming.
She has hurt not just the love of my life, but also her own children. The instability she has brought into their lives is something I work tirelessly to counteract. I want them to grow up knowing what stability, love, and consistency feel like. I want them to understand that family is about showing up, even when it’s hard, and about putting others’ needs before your own when it matters most.
It’s not easy to navigate these waters. The emotional toll is heavy, and the path to healing feels long and winding. There are moments when I wonder if I’m enough, if my love and support can truly help undo the damage that’s been done. But then I see glimpses of hope—small moments when my partner opens up just a little more, when the kids smile and laugh freely without worry, or when I feel the strength of the family we are building together.
I don’t know if she’ll ever fully understand or own up to the pain she’s caused. I don’t know if she even sees the harm in her actions. But what I do know is that I will continue to fight for my family. I will continue to be a source of stability, compassion, and love. And I will do everything in my power to show my partner, and the children, that there is still good in the world—still hope for a better tomorrow.
The past may be painful, but it doesn’t have to define the future. Together, we are learning to heal, to trust, and to believe in the power of love again. It’s not an easy road, but it’s one worth traveling. -
Balancing Act: A Journey Through Parenthood, Work, and Life’s Struggles
Lately, life has felt like a never-ending series of challenges and unexpected turns. Both kids have been sick for the past few days, and my heart aches as I watch them struggle. Today, after they both vomited this morning, we snuggled together in bed and watched Curious George. I made sure to keep up with over-the-counter medications and Pedialyte to keep them hydrated, trying to balance it all as best as I could. I do what I can to help them feel better, but it feels like I’m always in survival mode, rushing from one task to the next.
In the midst of it all, custody arrangements shifted unexpectedly this evening, leading to a late exchange of one of the kids. With everything going on, it’s hard to focus on one thing at a time when life throws so much at me.
Work hasn’t been much easier lately. In fact, it’s been incredibly stressful, especially with two unexpected euthanasias happening within a week. One of these was my own patient, a sweet little dog whose intake I was responsible for. I held a beloved patient in my arms as they bled internally, meanwhile my phone buzzed with notifications from home about a chaotic situation unfolding on my porch. I did my best to stay composed, but the emotional toll of balancing work and family left me feeling utterly drained.
At home, I’ve been doing my best to provide support for my partner, Charlie, who has been sick while dealing with an incredible amount of stress. My heart breaks watching someone I love so deeply navigate illness and emotional strain. I wish I could take away his burden, but I can only offer so much. Sometimes it feels like no matter how much comfort I give, it’s never enough.
I worry constantly—for my partner, for the kids, and for their well-being. These worries don’t go away. They hang over me every moment of every day. I spoke with my doctor during a telehealth appointment this week, and I’m grateful for her understanding and support. Her reassurance helps me navigate all the overwhelming feelings that arise.
Today, while picking up my prescription from CVS in Target, I grabbed baby bath salts and bath bombs, hoping they would help with congestion. Of course, I didn’t get to use them. Plans changed at the last minute, and the carefully thought-out arrangements suddenly shifted. I still feel anxious and uncertain about the follow-through, and the constant unpredictability makes it hard to feel grounded.
As I sit here now, wide awake in the quiet of the night, I’m reminded of how much I want a happy life. I deserve a happy life, and so does my family. But I can’t help but feel lost at times. The weight of it all feels so heavy, and I often wonder if I’m doing enough to balance everything. I’m determined to see this through, but I’m also exhausted.
I keep pushing, and I know that no matter how tired I get, I’ll keep fighting for a better life for my family. But sometimes, the emotional toll is overwhelming, and I need to remind myself to pause. To breathe. To remember that it’s okay to feel lost sometimes, as long as I don’t let it define me.
The love I have for Hope, for the kids, for Charlie, and for the life I’m building is what drives me. Even in the hardest times, it’s what keeps me going. The future may be uncertain, but I hold onto the hope that one day, we’ll find the peace we all deserve.
Where Hope Grows 