"Holding It Together With One Hand: A Mother's Story of Silent Struggle"

I met Leila Thomas at a community center tucked between rows of shuttered shops and aging apartment blocks. She arrived late, balancing a stroller with one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. Her toddler, Mia, was asleep, lips slightly parted, one hand clutching a chewed corner of a picture book. Leila looked exhausted but smiled politely as she sat down across from me, brushing back a few strands of hair that refused to stay tucked behind her ear.

She apologized for being late, though she didn’t need to. Life, for Leila, has been a series of tight schedules, unexpected detours, and impossible trade-offs. I was here to listen — and to tell her story, because hers echoes that of countless women who keep the world turning without ever being noticed.

"People assume being a mother is a blessing. And it is," she began, "but no one talks about how it also breaks you in ways you never expect. Especially when you're doing it alone."

Leila had once worked as a junior accountant at a mid-sized firm. The job paid decently, and for a while, she lived in a small but cozy apartment with her boyfriend, dreaming of a future where they might start a family. But when she got pregnant, everything shifted. Her partner became distant. Then angry. By the time Mia was born, he was gone — leaving behind unpaid bills and broken promises.

She took a deep breath before continuing, her eyes darting to Mia, still sleeping soundly.

"At first, I thought I could handle it. I had some savings. I told myself this was just a detour. But then Mia got sick when she was six months old — something with her lungs. The bills piled up. I had to choose between rent and medicine. Guess which one I picked."

She moved in with a friend temporarily, sleeping on a couch with her daughter cradled on her chest. The arrangement didn’t last. A screaming baby, a cramped apartment, and two stressed-out adults — it was a recipe for friction. Eventually, she found herself in a shelter.

That’s when she learned just how invisible mothers can be, especially single ones with no support system. She applied for assistance programs, food stamps, child care vouchers — anything that could give her some breathing room. But the system, she says, is “designed to make you prove again and again that you’re suffering enough to deserve help.”

"You have to explain your pain a hundred times," she said. "To case workers, to landlords, to strangers who don't care. They want you to justify why you're not working, even though you can’t afford daycare. They want to know why you're not looking for jobs, even though you're up all night with a teething baby."

She eventually landed a part-time cleaning job at night, scrubbing office floors from 8 p.m. to midnight. She’d come home, breastfeed Mia, and sleep in two-hour intervals before the cycle began again. Her eyes lit up when she talked about those nights — not because they were easy, but because they made her feel like she was “fighting back.”

"Every dollar I made was proof that I hadn’t given up. That I still had some fight left in me."

Leila now lives in a one-bedroom apartment through a subsidized housing program. The walls are thin, the heater doesn’t always work, and the neighbors can be loud, but she calls it “home.” Mia just turned two. She’s full of energy and has developed a love for dancing to old pop songs. Leila showed me a video of her twirling in circles in their small kitchen, giggling uncontrollably. “That laugh,” she whispered, “is the only medicine I really need.”

Still, the challenges haven’t stopped. Inflation means groceries eat up most of her paycheck. Diapers are a luxury, and Leila has gotten used to skipping meals. She takes freelance bookkeeping gigs when she can, often working from her phone while Mia naps.

“There’s no margin for error,” she said. “If I get sick, if Mia gets sick, if I miss a shift — everything falls apart.”

What struck me most was how calm she seemed while sharing all of this. Not numb — just... practiced. As if she’s told her story to herself a hundred times just to make it easier to survive. When I asked how she manages the mental toll, she smiled and shook her head.

“I don’t. Some days I cry in the bathroom. Other days I stare at the ceiling wondering if I made a mistake. But then Mia calls me ‘mama’ and climbs into my lap, and I remember why I keep going.”

She paused.

“I’m not strong. I’m just trying. There’s a difference.”

Leila dreams of going back to school to finish her degree. She wants to open her own small accounting business one day. She imagines a future where she can take her daughter on a vacation — “just somewhere with trees and clean air and no bills for a weekend.”

I asked what she’d want people to know about mothers like her. She didn’t hesitate.

“Don’t judge us. Don’t assume we’re lazy or irresponsible. Most of us are doing everything we can with nothing. We need compassion, not criticism. We need opportunity, not pity.”

Before we parted ways, Mia woke up. Still groggy, she clung to her mother, burying her head in her neck. Leila stood up, adjusted the bag on her shoulder, and gently kissed the top of her daughter’s head.

“This little girl saved me,” she whispered. “Now it’s my turn to save her future.”

As I watched her leave — one hand on the stroller, the other clutching her phone with job alerts buzzing on the screen — I realized I hadn’t just interviewed a struggling mom.

I had met a quiet warrior.