From Broken to Brave: A Single Mother's Resilience

By Candace Cotton

Photo Source: Unsplash

I often wondered—was I being judged, or was I the one casting the harshest gaze on myself? I was lost in my insecurities, watching my life curve down a path I never intended. I thought I had done everything right, yet I found myself in the place I feared the most: single motherhood. Those days blur together, memories clouded by trauma, as though my mind protects itself from the harshest blows. Trauma erases what it can, but some things remain.

They return with the dawn, in the rhythm of 5:30 a.m. mornings, rising to prepare breakfast, iron clothes, and lay little lives out with care. Exhaustion clung to me, a companion from sleepless nights where pain strummed the strings of my heart, mourning the loss of my mother—the woman who was my world, my anchor. Her absence was vast, but still, I gathered the broken pieces, rebuilding for the sake of my children, even as I stood alone in that void.

Loneliness consumed me, swallowing me whole. There were days when words barely formed, silenced by the weight of my shame. I was afraid—afraid of judgment and failure. I felt like I had let my children down. I wanted to give them a perfect childhood, but it felt too late. Still, I had to move forward, make it work, and survive.

Heartbreak is a crime, a quiet, creeping death where pieces of you disappear, vanishing into the abyss. That's what heartbreak does. It distances you from parts of yourself, never to be touched again. In the raw stages of grief, you're consumed by the urge for revenge, aching for the one who broke you to feel even a sliver of the anguish tearing you apart. How is it that they get to fly free, unburdened, crafting new lives, and building new families, while you remain shackled to the past, clinging to the pieces of what once was? You stand alone, and the thought of it breaks you—inch by inch, day by day. Yet, amid that pain, you wipe away your tears, gathering the fragments of yourself because you love your children. And to love them, you must find a way to love yourself. That thought became my anchor. Even when his love for me faded, my love for myself remained. I was determined to find the light again, to let it flood the darkness and lead me to a place of peace.

I dwelled on his abandonment—the way he left us, a woman and her baby girl, alone in the world. No calls, no concern for our well-being. A new love had replaced us. I hadn’t known we were disposable. How could someone who once said, “I love you,” leave us so empty, clinging to life, clutching our firstborn in the aftermath? The thought haunted me and sickened me to my core. Each day, I woke to fight, grieve, and carry it all.

But that memory, that pain, I had to release. I had to make space for something new. I had to find beauty in what remained. I was blessed, though it took time to see it. I was young, I was healthy, and I had been given a precious gift—a beautiful baby girl. This was my family now. And I was determined to give her the best childhood, even if it meant doing it alone. My shortcomings would not define what I could give her.

They say you attract what you are, but I’ve learned you attract what you haven’t healed from. It wasn’t until after my second child was born that this truth became painfully clear. I thought I had found my soulmate, my twin flame. We were perfectly in sync; everything seemed to align—nothing else mattered but us. He wasn’t just my world; he was my family. We were a family, at last.

But soon, those old wounds I thought I had left behind began to surface. I realized I had attracted the same story in a different person. The nightmare started all over again. Hadn’t I healed? During those years alone, I found myself—I embraced a vegan lifestyle, cut out all the toxicity, and vowed to celibacy for years, seeking a fresh start, a clean slate. How does one know when they’ve truly healed enough to begin again? I thought it was the right time. I thought he was the right one. But once again, I was wrong.

Soon after that relationship died, so did my mother. My world unraveled, piece by piece, all over again. But this time was different—my mother was gone, truly gone. I would never hear her voice again, never see her beautiful face. It felt like punishment, like I was living someone else's karma. I had always vowed to be good, love fully, and never intentionally hurt anyone. I never betrayed anyone, never cheated. When I loved, I loved deeply, perhaps too deeply. Maybe that was my weakness—loving too hard, being too available, and romanticizing how I thought love should be.

I had never been this alone before—empty, lost. I leaned on myself when I was breaking, piecing myself back together, bit by bit. When fear crept in, I wrapped myself and my children in love. I grew accustomed to doing it alone, to the solitude—it became my survival. I made a vow: never again would I let anyone in who could hurt or jeopardize my life or livelihood. I grew stronger, pouring everything I had into my children. This wasn’t going to be the end of our story.

I refused to let my trauma define me. I wasn’t going to lie down and let it win. I deserved the best out of life, and I realized no one could take that from me. So, I gathered my resources and strength and began to plan a beautiful life for us.

I cut out everything toxic—people, unhealthy foods, anything that lowered my energy. I found a house for us and made it our home. I planted fruit trees in the backyard, where a swing set and soccer goalposts stood. My garden became my peace, my sanctuary. I filled it with heirloom tomatoes and rare fruits like pawpaws and persimmons. It was a place where I could think, plan, and, most importantly, write.

I shifted my focus to what mattered most—my children and my family. Even though it was just the three of us, we had each other. I enrolled my children in piano lessons and art classes, surrounding them with creativity and opportunity. Despite all that I had lost and where I had ended up—alone and abandoned—I refused to let it stop me from reaching what was destined for me. People often ask, "How do you heal?" I tell them, "The healer heals herself." Therapists can guide you, but you must do the work. You must walk through the stages of grief, pick yourself up every time you fall, and fight to keep moving forward.

And most importantly, you must love yourself. Self-love is the key to it all. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to love my children as deeply as I do. So, I focused on the things that brought me joy. I visited museums. I started a blog, pouring out my thoughts every day. I spent time in botanical gardens and nature reserves, where life thrived freely. Through it all, I was healing. I was truly healing, and I found myself again in the process.

And then I realized there’s no end to the times you’ll lose yourself, only to be found once more. There’s no need to rush or have it all in place. You’re human, constantly learning, forever becoming. Don’t be too harsh on the heart that carries you. It’s in the stumbles that you grow. You’re meant to break, weep, smile, laugh, and rise again. So, this isn’t the end—it’s the start of something deeper, something braver. Yes, you’ve been shattered, left to bear the world's weight alone. But your story doesn’t close here. In the cracks of brokenness, I found strength. I found resilience. As I pieced myself together in the quietest moments, I discovered the power within me to rise.

Healing isn’t a straight path; it’s messy, raw, and beautiful. It’s in the tears you shed when no one is watching, in the dawn silence when you gather for another day. I learned that the love I gave to my children first had to be born in me. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about showing up every day, even when it hurt or I felt small. Now, as I stand in the life I’ve crafted, with the trees I planted and the laughter of my children echoing through our home, I know that we aren’t defined by what tried to break us. We are defined by how we rise, love, and dream, even in the face of heartache.

This isn’t the end of your story, either. You may be carrying the weight alone today, but you will find your wings in that weight. You’ll rise stronger than before, not because life was easy, but because you chose to heal, to love yourself, and to step into the light of your becoming.

Candace Cotton

Candace Cotton is a writer, poet, and photographer known for her evocative storytelling and heartfelt imagery. She is the author of Heal, a deeply inspiring exploration of transformation, and Zuri Zee's Magical Birthdays, a beloved children’s series celebrating imagination and wonder. Through her work, Candace captures the essence of growth, resilience, and beauty.

Instagram: @turtlebreeze | X (formerly Twitter): @turtlebreezee