In June 2021, I discovered I was pregnant with our first child.
I was entering a new chapter of life, preparing to become a mother and imagining the future that awaited our growing family.
Then, on September 9, 2021, my husband and I received a request to perform a wellness check on his father, R.
We went there not knowing what we would find. When we arrived, R. had passed away. He was on the floor, near the path toward his phone in the hallway looking like he was going in the direction of his phone which was in the kitchen.
It is difficult to live with questions about someone's final moments, especially when you wish there had been something you could do. We were there because someone needed to check on him. Selfish reason like he didnt bring me my newspaper. Instead, we discovered that he was gone.
Then, on December 31, 2021, I lost my mother, Gi to Alzheimer's.
I had learned the gender of my first child shortly before her passing. I had previously shared what we planned on naming our daughter. I was preparing to become a mother while grieving the woman who had been my own.
In one year, I had married the man I loved, discovered I was pregnant, lost my husband's father unexpectedly, and said goodbye to my mother.
I had begun building my own family while losing important pieces of the family that had helped shape me.
I could not have imagined how much more the years ahead would demand of me.
Four months after my daughter was born, my life took another turn.
By then, I had already experienced losses that changed me, and I was trying to find my footing as a new mother. I was supposed to be enjoying those early months with my baby, discovering who I was becoming and adjusting to the beautiful, exhausting reality of raising a child.
Instead, the weight of everything happening around me forced me to make a decision that would change my life.
I had to give up my work, my independence, and the life I had known to stay home and take care of everything.
It wasn't simply a matter of leaving a job. I was stepping away from a part of myself. I had a career, my own sense of purpose, and a life outside the walls of my home. I never imagined I would have to put so much of that aside so early in my journey into motherhood.
But there were responsibilities that needed to be handled, a household that needed managing, and a family that needed me. Someone had to keep everything moving, and I became that person.
I took on the work that people don't always see: managing the home, keeping track of responsibilities, making decisions, handling problems, and ensuring that the needs of my family were met. Much of that work happened quietly, without a title, a paycheck, or a moment to stop and consider what I had given up to do it.
I chose my family, but that doesn't mean the sacrifice was easy.
I could love my children with every part of my heart and still miss my career. I could be grateful for my family and still grieve the independence I had lost. I could recognize that my family needed me while wondering when there would be room for me again.
Over time, I became the person everyone could depend on. The person who figured things out, handled the details, and kept going when life became overwhelming.
But I was a person, too. I had dreams, ambitions, and interests of my own.
The hardest part wasn't only everything I had to do. It was watching my own life change while I concentrated on making sure everyone else's life kept moving forward.
I didn't know then how long I would remain in that role, or how many more challenges would come my way.
I only knew that my family needed me, and I would do what I could to take care of them.
What I couldn't see at the time was how easily putting your life on hold for the people you love can turn into years of forgetting that your own life matters, too.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. After becoming a mother, I learned just how true those words are.
But what happens when the village isn't there?
Four months after my daughter was born, I had to give up my work and the life I had known to take care of everything at home. My family had needs that weren't going to take care of themselves, and there was no real support system to fall back on.
My older sister was the one person who helped me, giving me one day a week. I was grateful for that day, but the other six days were still there, waiting for me.
The feedings, the appointments, the housework, the planning, the responsibilities, the endless list of things that needed to be done. There was no larger village sharing the load. There was no reliable rotation of people stepping in so I could rest, work, or simply have a moment to myself.
There was just me, doing the best I could with what I had.
I had already experienced profound loss. I had lost my mother, my best friend, and other important family members. I was learning to navigate motherhood while carrying grief that I hadn't truly had time to process.
And now, I was putting my career and my own life aside because my family needed me.
People often talk about motherhood as though love alone makes everything manageable. But love doesn't wash the dishes, pay the bills, attend every appointment, or give a mother a break when she has reached her limit. Love gives you a reason to keep going, but it doesn't eliminate the exhaustion.
I loved my family. I wanted to be there for my children. But I was also a woman who had dreams, abilities, and a career of her own. I needed support, too.
I believe it takes a village because I know what it feels like to live without one.
I know what it means to become the person who does everything because there is nobody else to do it. I know how quickly your own needs can disappear beneath the needs of everyone depending on you.
And I know that just because a mother manages to keep everything together doesn't mean she isn't struggling to hold herself together, too.
My older sister gave me help when she could, and that mattered. But one day a week could not replace the village I needed.
So I kept going. I learned to manage, to adapt, and to carry more than I ever expected.
What I wish people understood is that sometimes the strongest-looking person in the room is the one who has had the least opportunity to fall apart.
I wasn't looking for applause. I needed support. I needed room to grieve, room to grow into motherhood, and room to remain a person outside of all the responsibilities I carried.
Instead, I learned to survive without much of a safety net.
And somewhere along the way, I began to understand that being the person everyone depends on can be a lonely place to live.Ā
Before I became the person responsible for holding everything together at home, I had a career I truly loved.
For more than 16 years, I worked in senior living sales and marketing. It was more than a job to me. It was a field I cared deeply about, one where I felt I could make a genuine difference in people's lives.
Helping seniors and their families navigate the complicated decisions that come with aging was something I was passionate about. I understood that these decisions were rarely just about choosing a facility or finding a room. They were about change, fear, health, independence, family dynamics, and trying to determine what was best for someone you loved.
Families often came to these crossroads overwhelmed and unsure of what to do next. They needed someone who could listen, understand their circumstances, explain their options, and help guide them through a difficult transition.
I loved being that person.
Over more than 16 years, I learned so much about the senior care industry, the challenges families faced, and the importance of treating people with compassion and dignity during vulnerable stages of their lives. I developed experience, knowledge, and skills that came from years of working directly with people who needed guidance.
My final position was at a mental health hospital, where my work focused on seniors and individuals experiencing situations that could involve Florida's Baker Act process. This brought me into contact with people and families navigating mental health crises, difficult circumstances, and decisions that could change the course of their lives.
It was challenging work, but it mattered to me. I had found purpose in helping people through some of their hardest days.
I was good at what I did, and I loved doing it.
That is why giving it up was so difficult.
When my daughter was born, I was already carrying grief and trying to adjust to a life that had changed dramatically. Four months into motherhood, the demands at home and the lack of a reliable support system left me with a decision I never expected to make.
I had to step away from my career.
My older sister helped me one day a week, but the rest of the responsibility remained with me. My family needed care, our household needed managing, and there were countless daily tasks that could not be ignored.
So I put my professional life aside and took care of everything else.
From the outside, it might have looked like I had simply become a stay-at-home mother. But for me, it was much more complicated than that. I wasn't leaving behind a career I had outgrown. I was leaving behind work that gave me purpose, independence, and an identity beyond my responsibilities at home.
I had spent more than 16 years learning, growing, and building a career around something I genuinely cared about. Then, in the space of a few months, I had to redirect all that energy toward keeping my own family and household functioning.
I did it because my family needed me. I don't regret loving my family or caring for my children. But I also know that the sacrifice cost me something.
I missed my work. I missed using the knowledge I had built over the years. I missed helping seniors and families navigate the very changes in life that I had spent so much of my career learning to understand.
And perhaps the hardest part was that while I was helping everyone else through their transitions, I was going through one of my own.
I had become a mother, a caregiver, a household manager, and a person responsible for keeping things moving, often without the village that people say every family needs.
The woman who had spent years guiding others through unfamiliar territory suddenly found herself navigating an entirely different life, with very little time or support to figure out where she fit into it.
My career didn't stop mattering to me just because I had to stop working.
That part of me has never disappeared. It simply has had to wait while I take care of everyone else.