The invisible heroism of solo moms

Being a solo mom is a quiet kind of strength.

It’s waking up every day knowing it’s all on you.

The good days.

The bad ones.

And everything in between.

It’s showing up every morning, every practice, every birthday party, every heartbreak.

It’s sitting on the sidelines, cheering louder than anyone, even when your own heart feels heavy.

It’s celebrating their wins like they’re your own and wiping their tears after a tough loss. Pumping them up for the next fight, while hiding your own bruises.

It’s standing still, holding space for all their emotions. Their joy, their anger, their rage, their frustration, their silence.

It’s being the one they push away when they’re hurting, because you’re the only one there.

The one who sees their raw, unfiltered pain. The one who gets the slammed doors, the silent treatment, the heavy sighs.

You know it’s not really about you. You know this is what unconditional love looks like.

But damn, some days it hurts. Some days it’s a weight you can’t shake. Some days it’s so fucking lonely you can’t breathe.

And still, you get up. You pack the bags. You drive them to the game. You shout their name from the stands. You hug them even when they don’t hug you back.

You do it over and over again, without question. And you would do it all again in a heartbeat.

But that doesn’t make it easy.

Some days it’s fucking hard.

Some days it’s fucking lonely.