Every mother knows what it’s like to conceive a life. It’s not about anything more special than science. Every father who has ever known about the creation of a life knows that same cosmic connection to life.

It’s a connection every parent, or almost-parent, knows.

Today’s writing is about chosen abortions, lifestyle changes, and the choices we make to break the cycles of previous generations.

Maybe we weren’t handed the best life. Maybe we were born somewhere surrounded by people who constantly reminded us how bad things were.

Maybe you’re a lot like me.

Maybe you were beaten half to death by your mother during a tragic event, and those memories still haunt you into adulthood.

My mother kicked me across the room. She literally threw me.

She told me, “You shouldn’t be here! I’m going to die! I can’t take you with me!”

The house was on fire. My brother had started it, and my mother was depressed.

Clinging to my mother forced her to grab me and get out of those same flames that burned nearly everything we owned.

I don’t know how long I was in a hospital ICU. I don’t even know if there are any real records of what happened.

My father refused to allow the fire to end up in the newspaper.

It probably would have said something like, “Two Almost Died.”

But no one did.

My father refused to tell me much about those years. He protected me from the scary stuff and let the trauma fade into the background of my mind.

He knows he made choices, and those choices led to things. He knows how bad the injuries were at the time. He knows he did the best he could with the tools he was given.

And those tools came from being born to a mother a lot like me.

She was the youngest daughter, number thirteen of fourteen pregnancies. She raised my father to the best of her abilities while her own parents helped.

My father was born to my grandmother but was mostly raised by her parents.

He was always a “Hoffman.”

And it took him seeing me choose my own identity for him to feel light enough to allow himself to experience love as an adult.

None of us truly knows the trauma another person carries.

We know our own experiences. We know how those experiences shape us into the people we become.

We know how intrusive thoughts can become unstoppable if we aren’t careful.

I may not have everything figured out.

In fact, I don’t have anything figured out.

I know how to change a diaper and keep a kid fed.

Does that make me a good mother?

Then yeah, I guess I’m a good parent.

But if you ask me what really makes a good mother?

It’s someone who is always willing to learn from her own mistakes and choices. Someone who is always trying to make things better.

Not perfect.

Better.

Did I choose to give birth at seventeen?

Well, it sure as hell wasn’t part of my plan.

It was written in the universe.

I was on birth control. I was using condoms. I never thought in a million years that I would someday be old enough to be a grandmother and still young enough to want to start all over again.

I don’t know if I’ll ever give birth again.

I don’t know if I’ll ever create another life.

What I do know is that I’m sitting alone in my crappy apartment, thinking about how much better life feels when my best friend is touching my skin.

Even if we’re not talking.

Even if we’re both angry.

I’d rather have my back resting against the person I know will always have my back.

Even when I cannot have my own.

My parents never wanted me.

They created me during a time when they were fighting. I don’t know why or what was going on between them.

And honestly? It doesn’t make a difference.

The two of them hated each other around the time of my conception, but by the time I was born, they were both thrilled to meet me.

I was born mostly dead, with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck.

I wasn’t breathing.

I probably shouldn’t have made it through.

But I did.

I’m lucky.

I was born for a purpose.

Every close call I’ve had in my life is just another story I can use to help someone else realize they’re not alone.

If the only life I ever changed for the better was my own, that’s great.

But I’d much rather have been part of the reason my children became successful in their own lives.

Because success isn’t just about money.

Success with money is hard enough.

Success in love?

That’s damn near impossible.

I don’t know if my best friend loves me the way I deserve to be loved.

I know he loves me far more than I love myself.

And I’ve learned to love every single thing that’s wrong with me.

Even the neurodivergence.

Which, by the way, runs through far more families than most people realize.

I’ve begun to trust the universe.

And somehow, my life is changing faster than I ever expected it could.

Maybe that’s what being born is really about.

Not just the moment we enter this world.

But every moment we choose to become someone new.

Every time we break a cycle.

Every time we make a different choice.

Every time we decide that the life we were handed doesn’t have to be the life we leave behind.

Maybe birthdays aren’t just about celebrating the day we were born.

Maybe they’re about celebrating all the times we chose to live again.