I didn’t write this book because I wanted to be a writer.

I wrote it because I survived.

For a long time, I believed my story was something to carry quietly —

something too messy, too complicated, too heavy to lay down in words. I

was a teen mother at thirteen. I grew up in the shadow of addiction. I learned

responsibility before I learned how to be a child. And for many years, I thought

surviving was the same thing as living.

It isn’t.

This book is not a story about perfection. It’s a story about endurance. About

making imperfect choices in impossible situations. About carrying grief,

responsibility, shame, hope, and determination all at the same time — and still

standing up the next day...