Mourning the Life I Could’ve Had While Learning to Embrace the One I’m Meant For

I was watching The Chi.

It is a popular television show.

Long story short, in one of the episodes, there is a character by the name of Trig. He is the oldest of three boys to a mom who battled with drugs their whole lives. This caused Trig to take an alternative path in life and grow up much sooner then he would have liked. In one of the episodes, the brothers and their mom were all reunited. During a conversation, Trig brought up that he has a savior complex, and that he’s grieving. His mom, looked at him and asked,

“What are you grieving?”

And he said:

“The life I could’ve had.”

I don’t know what came over me. I immediately started crying. I tried to stop it, wipe it away like it wasn’t that deep but I couldn’t. The tears just kept coming, harder and harder.

Because I knew exactly what he meant.

It hit something deep. Like something in my bloodline recognized it.

It’s a generational curse.

If my grandmother were alive, I think she would’ve understood that kind of grief too. She had to step up and raise her siblings and leave her dream life behind. Her situation was different. Her mother wasn’t on drugs or battling mental illness like mine, she passed in her 40s from lupus, leaving behind six kids. My grandmother was the eldest. She sacrificed her dreams of singing to take care of them.

Me? I wanted to be a doctor. Not just some thought, I was obsessed. You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t gonna be one. I graduated at the top of my class and maintained a 4.0 GPA while earning my graduate degree. Cardiovascular surgeon was the goal. But deep down, I think I would’ve leaned into neuro.

So, why didn’t I become a doctor?

I got pregnant at 19.

And I already know what people say:

“A child doesn’t stop your dreams.”

And they’re right. But what they don’t talk about is what it costs.

Becoming a surgeon would’ve taken 17 years. That means my baby would’ve been 17 before I was finished. Her whole childhood; me stressed, drained, halfway present. She would’ve gotten maybe 40% of me. And she didn’t deserve that.

She would’ve been pushed to the side while I chased a title. And by the time I made it, she’d be grown off to college, and all we’d have is a birth certificate and a phone bill.

And I’ll be damned if I have a distant relationship with my child like my mom had with me.

So I chose her.

And if I had to choose again? I’d still choose her. Every time.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Nobody prepares you for this kind of grief. Nobody tells you less than 10% of people actually live out their dreams. The rest of us? We’re winging it. Grieving silently. Swallowing the life we thought we’d have.

It sounds harsh, but it’s real.

Athletes feel it too. Ballplayers who thought the league was next, only to realize the dream wasn’t happening. Some never recover. They walk around mad at the world, mad at the mirror.

I’m not ashamed to say I had dreams too.

And I grieve them.

I’m not embarrassed.

And nobody is gonna make me feel like I’m less of a mother because I do.

And as if that grief wasn’t enough, life kept piling on.

My mom couldn’t raise her kids. Not me. Not the other three.

At 25, I took custody of a 15-year-old girl ( my sister). I was still a baby myself, but I got her through high school.

Then at 32, my little brother 15 years old was placed in foster care. I stepped up again. Got him into my home. And just like before, I’ll get him through high school too.

By 35, I’ll have raised two teenagers that didn’t come from me—and my own daughter too.

No partner.

No help.

Just me.

Three kids. Three high school diplomas.

All while grieving the life I could’ve had.

All while dragging myself through days where I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

I’ve worn the same clothes for months. Nails chipped. Hair knotted. Working full-time, doing Uber on the side. Going back to school. Fighting CPS for my brother.

I’ve had days where I literally sunk into the couch and felt like I disappeared.

I wasn’t just grieving the doctor dream—

I was grieving me.

The version of me that was supposed to be the main character.

But I became everyone else’s lifeline instead.

And yeah, it impacted how I showed up as a mom.

CPS had me running to court so much, chasing documents, that I had to speak up. I told them:

“I love my brother. I’ll do what I have to. But you’re not about to make my daughter come last in my life. You’ve already made me disappear—I’m not letting you do that to her too.”

Sometimes I hear J. Cole’s voice in my head:

“There’s beauty in the struggle.”

And I be like, why we gotta struggle in the first place?

But still, I get it.

It built me.

It softened me.

It humbled me.

Nobody gives you a handbook for how to grieve the version of yourself you thought you’d be.

Nobody tells you life might detour you into becoming someone totally different.

But slowly, I’m learning to sit with it.

I’m learning to accept this version of me.

Maybe this alternate life made me softer.

Maybe it gave me grace.

Maybe it shaped me into someone I needed—more than I realized.

And maybe, just maybe, this version of me, the one I never planned is exactly who I was supposed to be.

You might not be a mother. Maybe you didn’t raise siblings. Maybe you never dreamed of med school.

But if you’ve ever had to put your life on hold for survival for family, for someone else, you know this grief.

This kind of grief doesn’t show up in obituaries.

It shows up in mirrors. In quiet mornings. In deep sighs.

It shows up when you realize you don’t even know what you like anymore.

You just know what everyone else needs.

And if you’re reading this and nodding your head, let me say it loud for you:

You’re not ungrateful.

You’re not bitter.

You’re not selfish for missing the life you imagined.

You’re grieving.

And you’re allowed to.

So yeah, I didn’t become a doctor.

But I became someone who shows up.

Someone who sacrifices.

Someone who refuses to let the people I love feel the kind of abandonment I once knew.

Maybe that’s not the dream I had.

But it’s the purpose I’m living.

And I’m learning to be okay with that.

So be patient with me while I grieve openly.