“‘You’re a single mom of four. Why did you continue to have kids if you weren’t happy?’
That’s the question I get asked more than any other. Some days it stings, and other days it takes everything in me not to answer sharply. But then I remind myself—those asking didn’t live my life. They didn’t walk in my shoes or see the full picture. They don’t know my story, so I try to give them grace for their curiosity.
As a little girl, I always dreamed of a home overflowing with children. I remember standing in my nurse aide class, giving a presentation about what I wanted my future to look like. I said I would marry young and have 20 kids. My sweet teacher smiled at me and said, ‘20 kids, huh?’ Life had other plans, and let’s just say that number dropped—dramatically.
I got married at 18, and just one year later, I welcomed my first child, a precious baby boy named Amar. He was born prematurely, and shortly after, I fell into postpartum depression. At the time, I didn’t know what it was or how to name what I was feeling. I only knew the fear. I stayed up night after night watching his tiny chest rise and fall, terrified something might happen if I looked away. I remember lying in bed, tears soaking my pillow, asking myself if I was ready, if I was capable, if I was already failing as a mother.
Two years later, our second son, Aydin, was born. I carried all the typical fears—how would my first adjust? Would I be able to love them both equally? Would one feel left behind? The moment Aydin arrived, those fears melted away. Watching my boys together taught me how powerful and unbreakable the bond between siblings truly is.
Four years into our marriage, life revolved around raising our children, working, and trying to move forward by buying a bigger home. Behind the scenes, though, our marriage was unraveling. We fought constantly about finances, drinking, and communication—or the lack of it. I truly believe the first two could have been fixed if we had learned how to communicate. I would pour my heart out, trying to address serious issues, only to be met with silence. Most days, it felt like talking to a wall.
Things became so bad that I reached a breaking point and decided to leave. I’m a ride-or-die type of person, and walking away was never something I took lightly. For me, leaving had to be the very last option. But drunk nights led to words and actions that couldn’t be undone. I packed my belongings, fully prepared to go. I remember him crying, promising to change, telling me he loved me—and I stayed. Things would improve for weeks, sometimes even months, but they always fell back into the same painful pattern.
Behind closed doors, I was deeply unhappy. From the outside, though, we looked like the perfect family. I kept telling myself that once we bought a bigger house, things would get better. Maybe more money would ease the tension. Maybe a vacation would fix what was broken. I clung to every “maybe,” hoping something would finally change.
But the truth is, nothing changed between us—even as everything around us did. We had two children and had just purchased a new home. Leaving felt impossible. In my culture, divorce is extremely rare. No matter how difficult a marriage becomes, you’re expected to stay. So I focused on surviving, finding joy where I could. My sweet boys were the only thing that made life feel worthwhile, and eventually, we welcomed two more into the world—Adam and Aylan.
I had so much, yet I was missing the one thing I needed most: a best friend. I’ve always believed your partner should be your best friend before anything else, but we never had that. I communicated, I tried, and I was always honest about how I felt—but it never seemed to matter. I know I wasn’t perfect, but I gave everything I had to make our marriage work. Night after night, I cried myself to sleep. At my lowest point, I even thought about ending my life because the pain felt unbearable. The only reason I stayed was my boys. They were my anchor when I felt worthless, unworthy, and completely unloved.
Eventually, any love I had left was gone, but I still wanted to give it one final chance. We took a vacation to beautiful Mexico with my two oldest boys and my siblings, hoping time away would help us reconnect. Instead, we argued most of the trip, and all the same issues followed us there. That’s when I knew—I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew I was leaving.
When we returned home, I sat him down and told him I was done. He brushed it off, treating it like something I’d said before. This time was different. I started searching for apartments and preparing to sell our house. Truthfully, we were barely making mortgage payments, so change was coming regardless. When he finally realized I was serious, he became everything I had begged him to be for nine years—but it was too late. I no longer loved him, and I knew the man he was pretending to be wouldn’t last.
Telling my family was one of the hardest moments of my life. Their disappointment was heavy, and I was painted as the villain—the one breaking up a family. They wanted explanations, but I chose to keep many details private. He is still the father of my children, and for that reason, I will always show him respect.
Leaving my marriage was the best decision I ever made for my kids and myself. The first year was incredibly hard. I cried for months—not because I missed him, but because I was grieving the family I had always dreamed of. I mourned the loss of friendships that disappeared overnight. I mourned the life I thought I would have. Eventually, I realized I did have the family I always wanted. I had my four boys, and they were more than enough. The friends I lost were never truly friends, and while my life didn’t turn out the way I planned, I was finally finding myself again.
For so long, I was lost trying to be someone I wasn’t just to make everyone else happy. In the process, I completely forgot about myself.
Yes, my story is messy and far from perfect—but it has a happy ending. Happiness should always come first. Feeling worthless, unworthy, and unloved is not what a happy marriage looks like. Two peaceful homes are far healthier for children than one unhappy one. Yes, I’m a single mom of four. Yes, I continued to have children even when I was unhappy. And it was the best decision I ever made. My boys saved me in more ways than they’ll ever know. Their unconditional love gives me strength, purpose, and the motivation to build the best future—for them and for me.”
