My mom is a warrior

My mom is a warrior—and not in the cliché, overused kind of way. I mean it in the truest sense of the word. Her life has been a long, hard-fought battle, and somehow, she’s still standing. Not just standing—but surviving, helping others, and still growing.

She was one of nine children. Her early life was lived on farms, bouncing between Oregon and California, following the seasonal rhythms of farm work. They lived in one-room shacks and tiny homes, often without stability, structure, or even love. That kind of childhood leaves a mark. It teaches you to fend for yourself early, to make do with little, and to question whether love is something you deserve.

Then came my father—a man who should have been her safe place. Instead, he was a sadistic abuser. But somehow, she survived long enough to bring me into the world, and then, when it finally became too much, she escaped. That kind of bravery..That’s warrior blood.

But life didn’t magically get better after that. She faced addiction. She experienced homelessness. She couch-surfed. She struggled. She had a string of relationships and marriages that only brought more heartache. It seemed like love and safety always slipped through her fingers.

And yet—she never quit. She’s one of the most resourceful people I know. Always searching for answers. Always learning. Always trying to move forward, no matter how many times life knocked her down. Im proud to say I get that trait from her.

She’s sharp, bold, and unfiltered. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and that honesty—though it sometimes stung growing up—is a gift I’ve come to value deeply. She taught me independence. She taught me the value of hard work. She introduced me to Jesus. I remember her reading her Bible, even when she had nothing else to hold onto. That stuck with me.

She is stubborn. She is strong. She is compassionate. She always believed me when others didn’t. She never doubted me. She taught me real-life skills and how to survive. She also taught me how not to be—and I say that with love. Her choices, good and bad, helped shape my own.

But it didn’t happen overnight. I was angry for a long time. I carried deep hurt. I didn’t understand her or the decisions she made. Until one day, I finally broke down and prayed, “Lord, please remove this hate in my heart and give me time with my mom—to know her, to love her.”

And God answered.

He softened my heart. He opened my eyes. I started to see her not through the lens of my pain, but through the lens of her own. She didn’t have the tools. She didn’t have the support. She was doing the best she could with what she had. And now, I see her. All of her.

She’s not perfect, but she’s powerful. She’s a survivor. She’s a fighter. She is a woman of faith who kept going when so many would have given up.

My mom is a warrior.

And I love her for who she is.