✍️ Fragments of Me, Entry 5: Alone in the fight

There is a moment that repeats itself like a ritual I never asked for. Every time I sit down with the stacks—printed texts, court records, letters from the people who still believe in me, school documents, anything connected to my girls—I feel something inside me crack. It’s not a gentle ache. It’s a break. A sharp, immediate shattering that steals my breath before I even realize what’s happening.

The sadness hits first, fast and overwhelming. My chest tightens, my lungs forget how to work, and suddenly I’m gasping for air, drowning in a grief that has no bottom. The tears come whether I want them to or not—big, messy, unstoppable. The kind of crying that leaves your face wet, your nose running, your whole body shaking. It’s not delicate. It’s not quiet. It’s the kind of crying that comes from a place deeper than words.

Then the anger arrives, hot and blinding. Angry that I’m crying like this. Angry at myself for ever letting them go. Angry at my aunt. Angry at everyone who played a part in this nightmare. And then, just as quickly, the guilt crashes in—guilt for being angry, guilt for feeling anything other than love. It’s a cycle that drains me until I’m empty, until I have no choice but to put everything away again. Every time I try to organize the pieces of this case, I lose another piece of myself.

This fight has changed me in ways I never expected. I used to believe I was a good mom—one of the good ones, the kind who showed up, who loved hard, who tried her best. But now I find myself questioning everything. Questioning my worth. Questioning my instincts. Questioning whether I’m any different from the mothers I once judged without understanding their stories. My mind never stops. It races day and night, replaying every decision, every moment, every “what if” until I can’t tell where the truth ends and the fear begins.

The stress, the isolation, the trauma of being separated from the two people who have always been my heart—it’s taken a toll on me. I’ve been given diagnoses that reflect the weight of what I’ve carried alone, labels that try to capture the impact of this pain. But no label could ever fully explain what it feels like to be torn from the very souls who made me feel whole.

And yet, even in the chaos of my mind, there is one thing that never fades: my girls. Their faces are etched into me like sacred carvings. I can still see them running toward me, arms wide, yelling “Mommy! Mommy!” with those bright smiles that could light up any darkness. I remember the warmth of their hugs, the softness of their kisses, the sweet smell of their freshly washed hair. I can still hear their laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—and their little voices calling for me like I was their whole world.

Those memories are both my comfort and my torment. They keep me going, but they also remind me of everything I’m missing. Everything that was taken. Everything I’m fighting to get back.

I am alone in this fight, but I am not hollow. I am bruised, but I am not broken. Every tear, every breathless moment, every sleepless night is proof of how deeply I love them. Proof that even in the loneliness, even in the fear, even in the exhaustion, I am still their mother. And I will keep fighting, piece by piece, fragment by fragment, until the day I can hold them again.

✍ Fragments of Me, Entry 4: The Cost of Justice

The courtroom was never meant to feel like home, yet I’ve spent more time there than anywhere else in recent years. Not because I chose it, but because the system demanded it. Family court is supposed to be about fairness, about protecting children, about balance. But when you’re standing alone, trying to navigate laws that change from state to state, fairness feels like a word reserved for those who can afford it.

I’ve stumbled through statutes, case law, and endless paperwork, educating myself because I had no other choice. Each state has its own rules, its own language, its own traps. What should be straightforward becomes a labyrinth, and I am left to wander it without a guide. Meanwhile, she walks in with state-funded lawyers, free representation, and resources I could never dream of. She is financially stable, yet the system arms her with support, while I am left to empty savings accounts, cash in my 401k, and take out loans just to cover a fraction of what legal representation costs.

And still, it wasn’t enough. Money—or the lack of it—has been the greatest barrier between me and my daughters. It is not my love, not my commitment, not my willingness to fight that keeps them from me. It is the price tag attached to justice.

What unsettles me most is the conscience of it all. I am ordered to pay child support to the very woman who, in truth, should never have had them in the first place. She holds them through lies and manipulation, yet the law rewards her with financial support. Their father, who was once ordered to pay me child support in our divorce, has never been held accountable. I never received a dime. And now, somehow, the burden falls on me.

It feels like being punished twice—once by losing my daughters, and again by being forced to fund the person who took them. The scales of justice are not balanced; they are weighted by wealth, by access, by privilege. And when you stand on the side without those things, you are crushed beneath them.

Still, I keep learning. I keep reading. I keep fighting. Because even though the system is designed to break people like me, I refuse to let it define me. My daughters are worth every sleepless night, every dollar spent, every ounce of strength I can muster.

This is not just a battle for custody. It is a battle against a system that confuses justice with money, that mistakes resources for righteousness. And though I may stumble, though I may feel helpless, I will not stop. Because one day, the truth will matter more than the lies. One day, the scales will tip. And one day, my girls will know I never stopped fighting for them.

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✍️ Fragments of Me - Entry 3: Love That Hurts

 I used to think love would save me. 

That if someone saw me—

really saw me—

they’d hold me together when I couldn’t do it myself. 

I believed in the kind of love that heals, 

that wraps around your broken pieces and says, 

“You’re safe now.”

But that’s not the love I got.

The love I got came with bruises. 

With manipulation. 

With promises that turned into weapons. 

I let people in who said they cared, 

and they hurt me in ways I still don’t know how to name.

Some of them used my vulnerability against me. 

Some of them disappeared when I needed them most. 

Some of them stayed just long enough to make me believe I was worth something—

and then left me questioning everything.

And the worst part? 

I still wanted to be loved. 

Even after all of it.

My parts don’t agree on how to handle this. 

One is angry, 

screaming that I should never trust again. 

Another is desperate, 

clinging to the hope that someone will love me right. 

Another is numb, 

refusing to feel anything at all. 

And I’m stuck in the middle, 

trying to make sense of how love became a battlefield.

I’ve been told I’m too much. 

Too emotional. 

Too broken. 

Too complicated. 

But the truth is, 

I’ve just been hurt too deeply. 

I’ve learned to protect myself in ways that look messy from the outside. 

I’ve learned to expect pain where there should be tenderness.

I want to believe in love again. 

I want to believe that someone could hold me without trying to fix me, 

without using me, 

without breaking me further. 

But right now, love feels like a risk I can’t afford.

I’m still healing. 

Still learning. 

Still trying to forgive myself for the things I allowed, 

the people I trusted, 

the wounds I carry.

This is what love has looked like for me. 

Not roses and poems—

but silence, 

confusion, 

and scars.

But I’m still here. 

Still writing. 

Still fighting.

And maybe one day, love won’t hurt. 

Maybe one day, it will feel like safety

✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 2: The Weight of Missing My Girls

There are days when the silence in my chest feels heavier than any burden I’ve ever carried. It’s the silence of absence—the silence of missing my girls. Their laughter, their voices, their presence—it’s all gone from my daily life, and the emptiness it leaves behind is unbearable.

I wake up with the ache already pressing against me. My parts argue about how to handle it. One tells me to be strong, to keep moving forward, to bury the grief under routine. Another collapses under the weight, whispering that I’ll never be whole without them. Another tries to numb me, to shut down the feelings entirely, because the pain is too sharp to survive. And I’m caught in the middle, exhausted from trying to hold all of these selves together while the grief keeps tearing me apart.

It’s not just missing them—it’s the guilt, the questions, the endless replay of what I could have done differently. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and every piece is connected only by pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

And while I carry this grief, the world doesn’t stop. Relationships keep breaking me. Men who claimed to love me left scars instead. People who said they cared disrespected me, hurt me, made me doubt my worth. Sobriety is a daily battle, and the stigma of my past—being a felon, having warrants—keeps slamming doors in my face even when I’m more than qualified. Every step forward feels like being shoved two steps back.

I cry constantly. Every minute, every hour, every day. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I feel alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. My parts keep me spinning, dragging me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing.

But even in the numbness, I write. I write because it’s the only way to give shape to the chaos inside me. I write because if I don’t, the grief will consume me whole. I write because maybe, just maybe, someone will read these words and understand that I am not careless, not uncaring—I am surviving a war that never ends.

Missing my girls is a weight I carry every second. It’s the heaviest part of me. And yet, it’s also the part that reminds me I am still human, still capable of love, still tethered to something real even when everything else feels broken.

This is the weight of missing them. This is the war of my fragments. And this is why I keep writing—because even shattered glass can catch the light.

Survival Mode

I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. My parts keep pulling me in opposite directions, each one convinced it knows best, each one louder than the last. One rises up and takes control, only to vanish when another storms in. I never know which version of me will show up, and the constant switching is wearing me down to the bone. It’s not just confusion—it’s exhaustion so heavy I can barely breathe.

People around me see the fragments. They call me forgetful, lazy, scatter-brained. They think I don’t care when I forget conversations, appointments, errands, even something as simple as what I said I’d cook for dinner. But they don’t see the war inside me. They don’t see how each part is having its own conversation, making its own promises, and leaving me to pick up the pieces when none of it lines up. I’m not careless—I’m drowning in too many selves at once.

And then there’s the weight outside of me. Missing my girls is a grief that never loosens its grip. It’s a heaviness that presses on my chest every hour of every day. Relationship wounds pile on top of that—men who claimed to love me but left me broken, people who said they cared but disrespected me, hurt me, made me question my worth. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and the only thing connecting those fragments is pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

Sobriety is another battle I fight alone. Every day is a climb with no summit, every step harder than the last. And while I’m trying to hold myself together, the world keeps pushing me back—reminding me I’m a felon, reminding me of warrants, reminding me that even when I’m more than qualified, doors slam shut in my face. It’s like the universe keeps saying I don’t deserve to move forward, no matter how hard I try.

I cry so much it feels endless. Every minute, every hour, every day, every week. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I am alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. The war inside me never stops, and the war outside me never lets up. I am exhausted from fighting on both fronts, exhausted from trying to prove I care, exhausted from trying to survive when all I feel is heartbreak.

My parts keep me spinning, tearing me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing. I want peace. I want stillness. I want to stop breaking under the weight of myself and the world. But right now, all I have is the pain that binds me, the exhaustion that defines me, and the hope—fragile, flickering—that maybe one day I’ll find a way to gather all these pieces into something whole.

"The Battle Scars I Honor"

I wear my scars

like medals,

like old songs written into my skin.

Each one tells a story —

not of defeat,

but of a woman 

who would not stay down.

There is the scar 

shaped like loneliness —

the nights I cried out 

into a dark that didn’t answer,

and kept breathing anyway.

There is the scar 

shaped like silence —

the times I swallowed my truth

because the world 

told me it was too much,

and still, 

my soul sang beneath it all.

There is the scar 

shaped like betrayal —

trust torn from my hands 

like fragile paper,

yet I learned to rebuild,

stronger, 

wiser, 

fiercer.

There is the scar 

shaped like missing my girls —

a hollow that could have devoured me,

but instead made me 

softer,

deeper,

wider in love 

than I ever knew possible.

There are the invisible scars —

the ones you can’t see,

carved into my mind 

by battles with storms

no one else could feel.

And yet here I stand —

whole, 

scarred, 

sacred.

I no longer hide them.

I no longer ache to erase them.

They are my proof:

I lived.

I fought.

I endured.

I became.

My scars are the script of my survival,

the map of every road 

I dared to crawl through,

the anthem of a woman 

who refused to be silenced.

I honor them.

I bless them.

I carry them with pride,

like a warrior wears her armor 

home from war.

Because I am not broken.

I am battle-forged.

And I am still — gloriously —here!

Remember it doesn't cost anything to
be a good-hearted, decent person. Don't judge 
a book by its cover or underestimate your 
capabilities.