She Never Quit. And Neither Can I

My Ma was tough in ways most people will never understand.
Not because she wanted to be.
Because she had to be.

My Ma loved music—whether she was playing an instrument or just listening with her whole heart, it lit her up. I love music too. Maybe that’s something she passed down to me. Maybe that’s how she kept a part of herself alive through the hard times.

You’d never guess that behind the soft eyes and warm laugh was a girl who ran from unspeakable pain at 15 years old. A girl who survived things she never should’ve had to endure. Who carried more than her share… and somehow still found a way to give love to her kids.

She raised us with whatever she had, even when it wasn’t much. We had laughter in our home. We had dysfunction, too. But I can tell you this: we had her. And that mattered.

There were times I saw her cry. Times I saw her hold it in.
Times I watched her get knocked down, but never stay there.

That's the thing about resilience.
It’s not shiny.
It doesn’t always look like victory.
Sometimes it looks like making dinner after your world fell apart.
Sometimes it sounds like singing through the pain or showing up when no one showed up for you.

I think about her a lot when life gets heavy.
When I want to quit.
When it feels like I’ve taken one too many losses.

And then I remember:
She made it through worse.
And she taught me how to make it through, too.

So if you're feeling worn down today, like life is asking too much of you—
Take a breath.
Stand up.
Keep going.

Not because it’s easy.
But because somebody who came before you did the hard things so you could do the next thing.

I love you, Ma.
You were the first example I had of strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful.
This post is for you—and for anyone out there trying to rise up from the things that tried to break them.

You’ve got more fight in you than you think.
Keep going.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Trap That Looks Like a Dream

Image
Harvey was just a pup in this photo—barely three months old, curled up at my feet, already deciding I was his person. He didn’t need much: just a soft place to rest, a quiet presence nearby, and the certainty that someone was staying. That’s the thing about dogs. They don’t care how fancy the destination is. They just want to know you're walking in the same direction. And that got me thinking. We live in a world obsessed with possible. You could go viral. You could become the next big thing. You could win the lottery, make millions, retire early. And yes—you could. But possibility isn’t the same as probability. Possibility is a flash. Probability is a foundation. One is lightning. The other is brick by brick. The trap is this: we’ve been sold the idea that anything is possible—which is technically true. But when we build our lives on it, we’re not planning. We’re gambling. We’re betting our futures on exceptions instead of patterns. We’re scrolling past the hard work, seduced by so...
Read more

The Ride I Never Asked For

Image
He told me to get in the car. I did—because when you're a kid and a grown man says that, you go. You don’t ask questions. You don’t expect much. But you definitely don’t expect what came next. We drove for a while, pulled into some parking lot, and without warning, he turned to me and punched me in the mouth. No conversation. No buildup. Just a fist and the words, “Stop being a little bitch.” I don’t remember what came after. Not really. I just remember trying to figure out how to explain my face to the world. I made something up—I don’t even recall what the lie was now. Only that I learned fast how to cover pain. How to tuck it in and keep it moving. You learn to survive. But here’s the thing: survival isn’t the same as healing. That punch didn’t just split my lip—it split something deeper. It told me I wasn’t safe. That I didn’t matter. That the men who were supposed to protect me could just as easily be the ones who hurt me. And for a long time, that scar shaped the ...
Read more