My one and only son

I’m 21, and my life didn’t follow the order I thought it would. I had plans—quiet ones I didn’t say out loud. I thought I had time to figure myself out first. Time to be a little selfish. Time to make mistakes that only affected me. Then my son arrived, small and warm and completely unaware that he showed up before I felt ready. He’s six months old now. Some days, when the house is finally quiet and my body feels heavier than my thoughts, I admit the truth to myself: I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how much sleep I would lose, how much of myself I’d have to give away, or how lonely love could feel when no one warns you how hard it will be. But here’s the part that surprises me. I love him in a way that ignores readiness. I love him when he fights sleep like he’s afraid to miss something. I love him when he grips my finger with his tiny hand like I’m his whole world. I love him even on the days I cry in the bathroom because I miss who I used to be. Becoming a mother didn’t erase me—it cracked me open. It forced me to grow faster than I wanted to, to be braver than I felt. I’m still learning. Still scared sometimes. Still 21, still human, still figuring things out one day at a time. I wasn’t ready when he came into my life. But every morning I wake up and choose him. And somehow, between the exhaustion and the fear, between the love and the doubt, I’m becoming ready—one heartbeat, one sleepless night, one smile at a time.