To My Sons — Isaiah, Elijah, and Zechariah

This is not just a letter.

It is my memoir in confession. My testimony in truth. The story of a woman who broke, and is still learning how to rebuild.

When each of you was born, the world stopped.

Isaiah, when I held you for the first time, I remember the weight of you in my arms and the overwhelming realization that something pure and holy had entered my life. I had never felt love like that before. It terrified me and healed me at the same time.

Elijah, you came into this world strong. I remember looking at your tiny face and thinking, maybe this is my second chance to get it right.

Zechariah, by the time you were born, I was older, worn in ways I didn’t yet understand. But when I looked at you, I felt hope. I thought love alone would be enough to fix everything broken inside of me.

Those were the happiest days of my life. The hospital rooms. The first cries. The way your fingers wrapped around mine. In those moments, I believed I could outrun my past simply because I loved you so much.

But love doesn’t erase trauma.

It affected you. I was carrying years of abuse and trauma that started long before you were born. I didn’t know how deeply wounded I was because I had normalized pain. I didn’t know what self-worth felt like. I didn’t know what I deserved. So I accepted less.

I stayed in toxic, abusive relationships because somewhere inside me, I believed chaos was familiar and familiar felt safe. I confused intensity for love. I confused survival for strength. I settled not because I wanted to hurt you, but because I didn’t yet know how to value myself.

And when a mother doesn’t know her worth, it ripples outward.

My drug addiction didn’t explode all at once it slipped in quietly. It felt like relief at first. It numbed the memories, the flashbacks, the shame, the ache in my chest I couldn’t explain. It promised escape.

But addiction doesn’t heal pain. It magnifies it. It consumes everything. It consumed my clarity, It consumed my stability, It consumed parts of me that you needed. And in the middle of that storm, you were just little boys. You saw things no child should ever see. You felt fear no child should have to feel. You experienced instability when you deserved safety. I failed to protect you. That truth lives heavy in me. I failed to protect you from the men I allowed around us. I failed to protect you from the chaos I stayed in. I failed to protect you from my own self-destruction. And because I didn’t love myself enough to walk away from harm, I unintentionally passed harm down to you.

When my father died, something inside me shattered completely. Grief broke the fragile pieces I had been holding together. I gave up on myself, on life, on hope. There was a moment when I truly did not want to exist anymore. I tried to end my life.

And no child should ever carry the memory of their mother wanting to disappear. For that, for all of it, I am sorry in a way that goes beyond language. I will always carry that sorrow. Not in shame, but in accountability. Abuse is a cycle. Addiction is a cycle. Settling for less is a cycle. It passes from generation to generation when no one stands up and says, This ends with me.

I didn’t end it soon enough. And that truth hurts.

But here is where the story turns.

Rock bottom forced me to meet myself honestly. It stripped away denial. It stripped away excuses. It made me see that if I did not heal, the cycle would continue abuse, addiction, settling, silence passed from one generation to the next like it always had been.

And I decided it ends with me.

Spirituality became my lifeline. Not religion in a rigid sense, but a deep, personal awakening. I began to understand that I am more than my trauma. That my past explains me but does not define me. That there is something greater guiding me toward healing.

I learned that kindness is key not just kindness toward others, but toward myself. For years, I punished myself internally. I spoke to myself with cruelty. Healing required me to soften. To choose compassion over condemnation. To understand that transformation does not come from self-hatred it comes from self-awareness and grace.

Kindness is strength. Kindness is power. Kindness breaks cycles. And forgiveness, forgiveness is freedom.

I had to forgive my past. I had to forgive those who hurt me. I had to forgive myself. Not because what happened was acceptable, but because carrying bitterness would have chained me to the same pain forever.

Forgiveness does not erase accountability. It releases poison.

It is one of the keys to a happier life.

Today, I am sober in ways that go beyond substances. I am sober in my decisions. Sober in my boundaries. Sober in the way I choose peace over chaos. I no longer stay where I am not valued. I no longer accept less than I deserve. And in doing that, I honor you because the greatest lesson I can leave you with is this:

Know your worth. Protect your peace. Choose love that is healthy.

When I look at the men you have become, despite everything, I know something inside our home planted strength. You are resilient. You are thoughtful. You are deep. You survived storms that could have hardened you yet you still stand.

I am so proud of you.

I do not demand reconciliation. I do not expect instant closeness. I only hope that one day we can sit together as healed adults, acknowledge the past without pretending it didn’t happen, and choose one another again.

The cycle stops here.

Not perfectly. Not without scars. But intentionally.

You were the greatest joy of my life the day you were born. You still are. And every step I take toward healing, toward kindness, toward forgiveness take it not only for myself, but for you and for the generations that will come after you.

With a heart that has finally learned how to love itself, I love all of you with every fiber of my being,

MOM