Everyone Judged Me for Being a Teen Mum… Until They Read My Story (2 of 3)

She worked two jobs to keep us going. I did online school between diaper changes and doctor appointments. I failed classes. Retook them. Passed most. I wasn’t chasing perfect—I was chasing survival.

Mia was born a week before my class sat their Year 10 exams. And from the moment I held her, nothing else mattered. Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and in that instant, life split in two: Before Mia. After Mia.

When Mum got sick—lung cancer, the cruelest kind—it felt like the world was caving in. I was sixteen, nursing her between freelance jobs and nursery pickups. She passed away quietly, just weeks before Mia’s third birthday. And somehow, I kept going.

We moved into a council flat. Small, but ours. I filled it with light, color, hope. I worked. I wrote. At seventeen, I published a blog post about teen motherhood that unexpectedly blew up. Not viral in a glitzy way—but enough to reach the inboxes of editors, of other girls who felt alone. It was the beginning of something.

Then, one rainy evening, Mia and I got soaked by a passing car. I laughed. She screamed. And the driver? He pulled over. Apologized. Offered a ride.

That’s how we met Adam. Polished, kind, surprisingly human. He didn’t flinch at “teen mum.” He asked about Mia first. Then me. And slowly, he became part of our world. Turned out, he worked in publishing. Never used that to impress me. He just encouraged me to tell my story.

“You should write a book,” he said once over dinner. “For girls like you.”

So I did. In snatches of time, in between bedtime stories and deadlines. It got picked up by a small press. Nothing glamorous. But it sold out. The title? Mia’s Mum.

Now, I speak at schools. Not to glamorize teen motherhood. But to tell the truth. About how it breaks you. And builds you.

Last week, Mia’s teacher pulled me aside. “She says you’re her hero.”

And in that moment, I knew: I didn’t ruin my life. I rewrote it.