Facets of Me: A Mother's Day Reflection

by Blakkmomba | Momba Raw and Unfiltered Podcast

⛔️ Content Warning: Sexual coercion, domestic abuse, child custody trauma, medical trauma, emotional and physical collapse, grief, survival, chronic illness

Yesterday was Mother’s Day.

And while people posted their brunches and bouquets,

I sat with the truth.

Not the polished parts. Not the pretty cards.

I sat with all of me.

This piece wasn’t planned.

It started with a voice note.

Just me, trying to process Mother’s Day.

But what came out… was something else.

Something deeper.

Something I had never said out loud in its entirety.

This isn’t a blog.

It’s a testimony.

It’s a soul dump.

It’s a collection of memories I never meant to write,

but that refused to stay buried another year.

This is for every woman who didn’t get to post the highlight reel.

For the mothers who became mothers while still raising themselves.

For the ones who left.

For the ones who had to start over with nothing.

For every version of me that still lives inside the woman I am today.

This is Facets of Me.

The Good Girl

I met him my first year in college.

I was fresh out of high school (Beloit, Wisconsin), young and optimistic, going off to school in Alabama—ready to start a new life.

There’s this stereotype about girls going away to school and coming back pregnant.

I swore I wouldn’t be one of them.

And then I was.

I didn’t want to be a single mom.

I didn’t want to be a disappointment.

I came from a two-parent household. I wanted that.

Family. Stability. Security.

I wanted love and marriage—not survival and shame.

When I left home for Christmas break, I was in love.

I thought I had something real.

But he had other plans.

He got me pregnant on purpose—took the condom off without telling me. Because he thought I might go back to my high school boyfriend.

At the time, I didn’t even have the language for what that was.

Now I know it was sexual coercion.

A violation of my body, my autonomy, and my future.

And I stayed.

I stayed because I was young.

Because I didn’t want the stigma.

Because I thought I could make it work.

Because I was trying to hold onto a version of life I thought I was supposed to have.

A Raw Introduction To Motherhood

I had Tiana at 19.

A baby with a baby.

And from the moment I held her in my arms, I knew I would never be the same.

But I wasn’t in a place of safety or joy.

I was in something that looked like love from the outside, but was spiritual warfare behind closed doors.

He was brilliant, charming, and broken in ways that bled out all over me.

He controlled me.

Threatened me.

Violated me.

Broke me.

The version of me that stayed wasn’t weak. She was young. She was scared.

She was doing her best to make sense of something no one had ever taught her to survive.

And even in the midst of all of that, she was still trying to hold onto what she thought life was supposed to look like.

All because she was trying not to be "that girl."

The girl who didn’t want to come back home pregnant.

The girl who didn't want to raise a child alone.

The girl who wanted and fought for a two-parent household.

The girl who just wanted love, security, safety.

I was so damn close to marrying that man. But something—God, instinct, maybe even my future self—kept saying no.

Don't do it.

You bet not do it girl!

And thank God I listened.

Because if I had married that man, I truly believe I would’ve never gotten out.

I would’ve been buried in that reality, chained to vows that didn’t reflect love—only survival.

A slow painful death.

What finally broke the cycle was when he actually followed through on his threat to kill me.

The Day My Daughter Saved My Life. Literally.

He was on top of me.

Hands around my throat.

Eyes full of rage.

He wasn’t threatening me anymore—he was doing it.

And I had made peace with dying.

That’s how low I was.

That’s how broken I had become.

I was ready to let go.

And then…

Tiana grabbed him.

Three years old.

Crying. Screaming.

Begging him not to hurt me.

Begging him to stop.

And something in me came back to life.

I didn’t fight him off.

I didn’t win.

But something divine stepped in at that moment.

And I knew—this was my line in the sand.

That moment?

That was the end of the life I knew.

And the beginning of the woman I would become.

Rebirth.

Tiana saved my life that night.

And I’ve grown with her ever since.

As a mother.

As a woman.

As a soul.

I left with two bags and a carry-on.

No plan. No savings. No support system.

Just me, her, and a strong desire to survive.

Starting Over With No Blueprint

We flew home back to Wisconsin.

It was trial by fire.

I didn’t have a blueprint. Nobody held my hand.

I was figuring it all out on my own.

We ended up in a shelter.

The embarrassment and shame grew exponentially. 

Tiana didn’t understand why her world had flipped upside down. She didn’t understand why her father disappeared and we were now living with strangers.

She only knew she missed him—and I had no answers when she cried for him. 

When she begged to go back home.

To him.

Two months passed. No calls. No contact.

And then, out of nowhere, he reached out.

Asked to see her.

And because I am not the type of mother

to use my child as a weapon—because I was young, and tired, and thought she deserved to see her father—because despite not being a good man to me, he was an amazing father to her when we were together—

I said yes.

She was excited. 

I was hopeful.

And I let her go—for two weeks.

A Two Week Visit That Turned Into a Kidnapping

Those two weeks turned into three months.

No word. No visits. No answers.

He had filed emergency custody papers behind my back.

He claimed I was unstable.

That I abandoned her.

That he was protecting her.

None of it was true.

But when I drove to Alabama with my father to bring her home, I was met with police and papers.

He wasn’t even listed on the birth certificate.

The DNA test he submitted wasn’t court-ordered.

He was manipulating every system he could access.

His mother was in on it too.

He had connections.

He knew people in child support, in law enforcement.

And I had no power.

No money.

No voice.

I came home without my child.

And I nearly lost my mind.

The Deep End

For three months, I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again.

Didn’t know what she was being told.

Didn’t know who she was with.

Didn’t know if she still remembered me.

There was a time I thought surviving the abuse would be the hardest part.

But nothing—nothing—broke me like the day my daughter was taken.

Yes, that daughter.

The one who stood between me and death when she was three.

The one I left everything for.

She was gone.

And when it happened?

I lost it.

I was spiraling.

Drunk, dissociating, disappearing.

My daughter was gone.

My sanity was slipping.

I didn’t know who I was without her.

I drank to forget.

I cried to remember.

Thanking God for blessed darkness when I passed out.

Trying to drown something I couldn’t name.

Not because I didn’t love her.

But because my body couldn’t hold the panic.

My mind couldn’t hold the fear.

This face?

It’s what it looks like when a woman unravels.

I wasn’t eating.

I wasn’t sleeping.

I wasn’t me.

I bent to the point of breaking.

I devolved into something dark.

Something desperate.

Something that scared even me.

I almost didn’t make it back.

Almost.

But almost doesn’t count.

Because I didn’t break.

I got my shit together and found a lawyer.

My parents came together and helped me with the retainer.

I pulled myself out of the bottle, out of the pit, out of the mouth of madness.

And I fought.

I fought for her.

For me.

For the fucking audacity.

I refused to go out like this.

That chapter?

It cracked something in me wide open.

But it also reminded me—I don’t stay broken.

I get dangerous.

I get focused.

And I protect what’s mine.

The Day I Fought the Devil and Won

It was time to face the monster in court.

My hands were shaking, but my spirit? Steel.

I walked in armed with truth—receipts for every lie he’d ever tried to tell.

Proof I had my own apartment.

Proof I had a job.

Proof I had daycare.

Proof I had stability.

He tried to lie on my father.

He didn't know my father would be in the courtroom that day and backed by his brotherhood.

If I did not leave with my baby that day...just know, that he was not about to leave with her.

This wasn’t just about custody. This was about control.

This was about dignity.

This was about finally saying: No more.

His lawyer wasn’t ready. She was blindsided by the facts.

The back-and-forth was brutal. But my team matched every accusation with evidence.

Every gaslight with fact.

Then came the Guardian ad Litem. That woman didn’t work for me or him.

She worked for my daughter.

She was her lawyer.

And baby… she read him.

Every lie. Every manipulation.

She aired it all out in that courtroom like stained laundry.

Loud and factual.

The judge didn’t mince words.

What he did was tantamount to kidnapping. Period.

He was ordered to release her immediately or go to jail.

And even then—even then—he had the audacity to approach me.

Told me it was his lawyer’s fault.

Told me he didn’t know.

Told me more lies.

I didn’t respond.

He did not deserve a look from me.

I still have those court transcripts.

Still haven’t read them.

But I remember the sound of justice.

And that day…

it sounded a lot like my baby coming home.

The Reunion

When I arrived to pick her up, I was told she was staying with someone else—far outside the city.

He didn’t even have her.

We showed up with police.

Walked into the house.

And there she was.

On the couch.

Hair filthy. Clothes disheveled.

Unkempt. Unloved.

She opened her eyes, looked at me… and didn’t recognize me.

She blinked.

Like I was a ghost.

And then she said,

“Mommy… is that you?”

“What took you so long?”

Those words haunt me to this day.

We didn’t stop to gather her things.

Didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

My lawyer advised us to never cross state lines again.

We left that day, and I never looked back.

The Weight of Pain & Trauma

Fast forward to 2015.

And everything I had been carrying—everything I had survived—caught up with me.

I hadn’t had a pain-free day since that year.

Not one.

Fibromyalgia.

Chronic fatigue.

Debilitating arthritis.

So many diagnoses that I stopped counting.

Pain in every joint, every limb, every breath.

Nine surgeries.

Three in one year.

More to come.

A full hip replacement I couldn’t even get at first—because I was too overweight.

That pain changed everything.

Simple acts—like getting in the tub, putting on lotion, drying off—became agony.

I stopped bathing some days because I couldn’t bear what it would take to climb out of the tub.

And for someone who loves to soak in the tub for hours, spend time rubbing lotion on, and doing facials...

It was hell not being able to do those simple acts self love because of pain.

Pain became the new monster in my life.

I Ballooned Past 400lbs

The weight gain was rapid.

Inflammation. Medication. Depression.

And the shame nearly swallowed me.

And that’s when the darkness returned.

I didn’t want to live anymore.

Didn’t want to wake up in pain.

Didn’t know who I was under all that suffering.

I wasn’t just physically broken.

I was spiritually empty.

I was tired of battling life.

Battling monsters.

I was tired of breathing.

Finding My Voice

Somewhere in that valley of darkness and depression, I found my voice. 

When I look back at that time in my life, I still feel the wonder of survivin

I didn’t pick up a mic because I wanted a platform.

I picked it up because I was drowning.

I didn’t start writing because I had something to say.

I started writing because I had nowhere else to put the pain.

The mic saved my life.

The pen gave me power.

Somehow—by grace, mercy, and prayer—I lost 150 pounds in less than 365 days.

It melted off. 

I was sedentary and was not actively trying to lose the weight.

I had accepted this new reality life handed me.

The doctors still can’t explain it.

But I can.

That weight loss gave me a new lease on life.

It allowed me to get the hip surgery I’d needed for over a year.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—I could move again.

Not without pain.

But with possibility.

The Universe loves me.

I was blessed with an opportunity to live.

I still live with pain every single day.

She is my faithful and willing concubine.

As I write this, I am in pain.

But I’ve made peace with our relationship.

I’ve learned how to live with pain, instead of dying from it.

How to listen to it, instead of letting it silence me.

Life is a bitch, yes, but now?

I get to make her mine.

My voice.

My story.

My pain.

My truth.

It demands I pay the toll for this new life I’m living.

And I do.

I pay it by sharing.

By becoming a window.

By using this platform I built—born from violence—to help others rise like a phoenix.

To become beauty for ashes.

That’s the price I pay for my survival.

And I pay it willingly.

Because I know healing doesn’t happen in isolation.

Not the kind that roots itself in your bones.

What I’ve lived through?

Might be somebody else’s survival guide.

Might be the very words my children need one day when they’re trying to find themselves again.

I found my voice.

Or maybe—my voice found me.

Either way, I use it now.

To speak for the unseen.

To echo the unheard.

To make sure no one who crosses my path leaves without knowing that truth still matters.

To be a living reminder of how one can push pain into purpose.

All Grown Up & Still Growing

Tiana saved my life in more ways than one. And I’ve grown beside her every step of the way.

As a mother.

As a woman.

As a survivor.

And I honor her.

I honor her sisters.

I honor every version of me they’ve seen and stood beside.

They have loved me through them all. 

I am blessed.

So no—this isn’t a story of strength.

It’s a story of survival.

A story of layers.

A story of facets.

The little girl who didn’t know what danger looked like.

The teenager who thought love could fix everything.

The young mother who stayed too long because she just wanted a family.

The woman who crawled her way out of depression with nothing but her breath and a prayer.

The version of me that broke.

The version that rebuilt.

The version that’s still rising.

All of them—every single one—are me.

I’ve loved them. I’ve hated them.

I’ve mourned some and resurrected others.

But yesterday, I decided to stop running from them.

They are all facets of me.

And if it wasn’t for them—if it wasn’t for everything they survived—I wouldn’t be the woman I am right now.

The one who thinks like I do.

The one who sees clearly.

The one who can mother not just from instinct, but from insight.

Because now, I get to plant something different in my daughters.

Not just protection, but perspective.

Not just rules, but tools.

So when their own facets show up—soft or sharp—they’ll know how to tend to every version of themselves.

This isn’t just a testimony.

This is a blueprint.

This is legacy.

This is me—every version, every scar, every survival.

Whole.

Here.

And finally… unfiltered.

The Woman In The Purple Pajamas

And the face you see now?

A woman in purple pajamas.

No shame.

No performance.

Just presence.

She is not my final form.

But she is the first version that’s not pretending.

She knows what she’s made of.

She wears her history like skin.

She holds space for every girl I used to be on every timeline.

She is facets of me—made flesh.

And I love her.

Happy Mother's Day, Tonua Rena

And at the end of it all yesterday…

I sat with this picture—her younger self, from a different timeline—wishing me Happy Mother’s Day like she always does.

Every year, she finds a way to say it. Sometimes loud, sometimes soft. But always full of love.

What she may never fully know is:

every day in between is Mother’s Day for me.

Because there is no clocking out of this calling. No break from the bond. No pause in the pulse of motherhood.

I didn’t become a mother the way I dreamed I would.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t safe.

I became one by force.

But even then, I had choice.

And I chose her.

I choose her still.

Because somehow—through all the chaos and trauma and broken timelines—she chose me too.

Dedicated to Tiana, Gloriana, & Kylie

For the gift of being my children. 

Mommy loves you always.

Forever.