I became a mom very young. I was just a few weeks shy of turning 18 when I first suspected I might be pregnant. Nervously, I made my way to the school nurse’s office, hoping no one would see me. Sitting there, waiting for the test result, my mind raced in fear: “What if it’s positive? What will I do? How could I possibly take care of a baby?” The nurse asked if I had any idea what I would do if the result came back positive, and I had no clue. She looked at me, then down at the test, and finally back up. “It’s positive,” she said, showing me the two bright pink lines. “Let’s talk about your options.” I sat frozen, barely processing her words, as shock began to settle in.
She gave me papers and explained my choices: adoption, abortion, or keeping the baby. None were easy, and each would change me forever. I had never faced such a life-altering decision. After leaving her office, I walked to the library, hiding tears as I sat at an empty table and texted one of my sisters and a couple of friends. Their words were comforting, but I had never felt more alone as I imagined my future.
It took a week before I could truly face the decision. I closed my bedroom door, pulled out the nurse’s papers, and stared at the abortion clinic’s number. My fingers trembled as I dialed, and when the woman asked how far along I was, I guessed, “Eight weeks.” But after scheduling a tentative appointment, I hung up, slid down the side of my bed, and cried. I realized there was only one path for me: I was going to have this baby and become a mother, just as I was stepping into adulthood.
Telling the father, Jordan, was surprisingly easy. He was supportive and ready to face parenthood with me. A month later, I finally mustered the courage to tell my parents. A week before graduation, I asked to speak to my mom alone in the garage. Fear built as we walked out, and I sat across from her, struggling to breathe. Tears fell as I admitted, “I’m pregnant.” But I wasn’t crying from fear of being a young mother—I was crying because I was afraid I had disappointed them, afraid I had somehow failed.
My mom was quiet but calm. I asked her to tell my dad, and she agreed. Later, I imagined their conversation over dinner, my stomach twisting. Then my mom called unexpectedly, telling me they had found an abortion clinic online. I was shocked. “I can’t get an abortion. I’m 17 weeks,” I said. She replied, “It says they do it until 19 weeks.” I told her firmly: I wasn’t getting an abortion. I was keeping the baby. From that moment, the conversation ended. I knew this was my choice, and despite their intentions, I had to make the decision for myself. Jordan’s parents reacted differently—they were thrilled, their eyes shining with joy over their first grandchild—and suddenly, a huge weight lifted. But the real challenges were just beginning.
When I started seeing a doctor for prenatal care, it became clear he disapproved of my choice. He ignored my questions, dismissed Jordan, and treated me with little empathy. My due date was set for November 18th, but when my baby measured a month behind in growth, he refused to listen. At 36 weeks, I could feel my son’s head pressing down, breech. The office initially dismissed my concerns, but an ultrasound confirmed it. A C-section was scheduled for November 9th at 8 a.m.—not the natural birth I had imagined, but necessary for my son’s safety.
November 9th arrived. Jordan and I got ready, riding with my parents to the hospital. Anxiety and excitement mingled as we filled out forms, changed into gowns, and waited. In the cold, sterile OR, a needle was inserted to numb me, and I cried from fear. When Jordan entered, relief washed over me. Holding his hand, I drew strength from his presence. Then, finally, they showed us our baby. Malachi. I remember staring at him, the light behind him, thinking he looked like an angel—perfect in every way. But he was immediately taken to another room; fluid in his lungs required him to stay in an incubator. I couldn’t hold him yet. Jordan showed me photos, and I ached to feel him in my arms.
Hours later, I was moved to a private maternity room. Exhausted, I slept, longing for my son. When I awoke, another mother was beside me with her newborn, crying while I still hadn’t held Malachi. My parents visited and saw my pain, but there was little they could do. That evening, the nurses wheeled me downstairs to see him in the incubator. He was only 36 weeks, premature due to the doctor’s miscalculation, yet so small and perfect. Soon after, a private room allowed us to be together, and after 30 hours, Malachi was finally brought to me. Tears streamed as I held him for the first time.
Our challenges continued. The hospital would not allow me to breastfeed, and Malachi struggled with formula, losing weight. My parents fought for me, advocating for my right to make choices for my own baby. Once home, life didn’t feel like home—it felt surreal. Friends visited, and I was thankful for their support, but I was living a new stage of life, far from the university courses my friends were taking, caring for a tiny human around the clock.
Malachi had colic, and nights were long and lonely. Jordan’s visits were limited, and I handled evenings alone, exhausted from recovering from my C-section. Over time, the colic eased, and I began to enjoy motherhood. When Malachi was nine months old, we moved into our own home—a two-plus-one-bedroom condo. Being together as a family every day and night filled me with gratitude.
As the years passed, challenges persisted: surgeries for ear infections, steroid shots for lungs, hospital stays for pneumonia, and a five-year-long journey to diagnose ADHD. Through it all, we had to fight for our voices to be heard, proving that age didn’t define a mother’s capability. Malachi, whose name means “my angel” or “my messenger,” had already taught us so much. He brought our family together, shaped us, and grew with us.
We were just kids when we had him, but he made us adults. Every challenge strengthened us and bonded us in ways I never imagined. Over the past nine years, he has shared in our firsts, and we’ve shared in his. He has given our lives meaning, joy, and growth. Looking at him now—blonde hair, blue eyes, freckles across his nose—I am overwhelmed with love and gratitude. He made me a mom, and he made us a family. And for that, I wouldn’t change a thing.
