The woman who chose me - Again and Again.

 I can still see her so clearly the first time I met her.

She had the biggest, blondest hair I had ever seen — the kind of hair that didn’t apologize for taking up space. She was driving a truck, and instead of a normal stick shift, there was a screwdriver jammed in there doing the job. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. And in that moment, before I even knew her story, I knew something about her spirit.

She was strong.

She was fearless.

She was herself.

And she was everything I wanted to be.

I didn’t come from a place where things felt steady or gentle or safe. I learned early how to survive, but I didn’t know how to be cared for. And then she walked into my life — not trying to replace anyone, not trying to make a statement — just quietly showing up and staying.

She bought me my first pair of Nikes. 

I don’t think she ever knew what that meant to me. It wasn’t about the shoes. It was about someone seeing me, wanting me to feel proud, wanting me to feel like I belonged. Like I was worth something good.

When my mom tried to cut my hair herself and messed it up, I was embarrassed and ashamed and trying to pretend it didn’t matter. 

She didn’t laugh. 

She didn’t criticize. 

She just took me to get it fixed. 

Again — no drama, no lecture. Just love in action.

That’s her in a nutshell.

Later, when I became a mom — young, scared, and trying to pretend I wasn’t terrified — she became my blueprint. I didn’t know how to be a mother. I was still a kid myself. And she stepped in and taught me, not with rules or judgment, but with example.

She showed me patience.

She showed me consistency.

She showed me how to love without conditions.

She had already known a kind of pain I can barely comprehend. 

Thirteen miscarriages. 

Thirteen times hoping. 

Thirteen times losing. 

Thirteen goodbyes to babies she never got to hold long enough. 

That kind of grief changes you. It hollows places inside your heart that never fully fill back in.

And yet — somehow — she didn’t close herself off.

Instead, she listened to God. 

And when she felt Him telling her not to try again, not because she wasn’t strong enough, but because her purpose was elsewhere… she obeyed. She chose to pour that mother-love into me. Into my son.

The part that still undoes me is this: 

Khristian’s name was the name she had chosen for the baby she never got to raise.

Let that sink in.

She took a name born from loss and wrapped it around my child with love. She didn’t resent it. She didn’t guard it. She gave it freely — like a blessing, like a promise that love never dies, it just changes shape.

She didn’t just help me raise my son. She healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken. She showed me that family doesn’t always come from blood — sometimes it comes from someone who looks at you and says, I choose you.

Over and over.

On the hard days.

On the quiet days.

On the days when loving me probably wasn’t easy.

She is amazing in ways that will never fully fit into words. 

In her sacrifices. In her gentleness. In her strength. In her unwavering presence.

She is my mom in every sense of the word.

Not because she had to be.

Not because biology demanded it.

But because she listened to God, opened her heart, and chose me.

And that kind of love changes the entire trajectory of a life.

I should know. Bc it changed mine. ❤️