Life shifts constantly. One minute you’re flying down backroads at 90 mph with Bon Jovi screaming through the speakers, the scent of Aqua Net hanging in the air like fog in your car. You feel untouchable. Immortal. Like nothing and no one can stop you.
I was sixteen.
Working two jobs.
Going to high school.
Planning my debut in Nashville.
(Hey, a girl can dream, right?)
Just casually mapping out my rise to stardom somewhere between high school drama and closing shifts.
And then I graduated.
Cap on, lashes done, hair teased like a lioness with ambition.
I walked that damn stage.
And then…
WHOOP—there it is.
Reality.
Not during high school.
Not instead of it.
Nine months later.
While everyone else was delivering college assignments…
I was delivering.
Literal.
ONLY IT CAME IN A…
Pink.
Screaming.
Wiggly.
Wrinkled.
PERFECT.
Baby.
Suddenly, I was no longer the wild teen with the lead foot and the big attitude—I was someone’s mother.
And not just a mother.
A girl mom.
The kind of title that comes with glitter, opinions, drama, heart, humor… and the sobering realization that you’ve been handed a mirror to your past, your insecurities, and your strength.
At first it was dresses and pink frills—thank God she was more spirited like her momma.
Jeans and overalls quickly became her favorite. Climbing trees? Absolutely.
But don’t ask her to play in the dirt. And brace yourself for a full-body meltdown if a single drip of water splashed her way.
Motherhood didn’t knock.
It kicked the door in like it owned the place.
No script.
No warm-up.
No stage lighting.
Just me, a baby, and the burning question:
“Now what?”
And the answer?
I figured it out.
With no filter, no guidebook, and zero applause.
Just grit, grace (on good days), and gallons of coffee.
They don’t tell you this part.
They don’t tell you how motherhood crashes into your life like an uninvited guest, flinging open the door with a suitcase full of chaos, beauty, identity crises, and moments so raw they leave you breathless.
They don’t tell you that raising a girl means raising yourself, too.
Your invincibility turns into vulnerability.
Your confidence grows teeth—sharp ones.
Your fear becomes fire.
And your hardest job becomes guiding her through the very things you barely survived… while trying not to pass down your scars disguised as wisdom.
But damn if she doesn’t light a fire under you.
Being a girl mom made me fierce. Protective.
Soft where it matters, and strong where it counts.
I learned how to hold space, draw lines, wipe tears, and stand taller than I ever did in stilettos or defiance.
So yeah—BRAKES.
But not a crash.
A course correction.
And if you ask me now?
I’d still take that wild ride—but this time, I’d do it with her in the passenger seat.
Hair teased.
‘80s blaring.
Showing her exactly what power looks like when it comes with love, truth, and unapologetic presence.
Because life doesn’t stop.
But it sure as hell shifts.