ZARIA
All week, "W.A.Y.S." by Jhené Aiko been echoing in my head. It's like she's singing straight from my soul. Every line feels like a page from my own journal—soft, painful, but honest.
I've been playing it on repeat, not just because it sounds beautiful, but because it feels like a reminder. A whisper in the back of my mind that says keep going... even when it hurts.
Some mornings, I wake up and stare at the ceiling, wondering how I'm going to make it through the day.
My baby is crying in the next room, the alarm been going off for fifteen minutes now, and my body feels like it's made of concrete.
I'm seventeen, soon to be eighteen. A mom. A student. An employee. And somehow, I'm expected to keep it all together like I've got it figured out.
But I don't.
I get up anyway. I warm a bottle with one hand, and I pack his diaper bag, throw on my Chick-fil-A uniform, try to brush down my edges, and slap on a smile like armor.
Sometimes I walk into school like I didn't just cry in the bathroom five minutes before. I clock into work like I'm not silently falling apart.
Nobody really notices it—not even my parents. Especially not my dad. I know he's proud of me, but I think he's too preoccupied with trying to make amends with mom that now it seems like I'm invisible to him.
My mom... I've been trying to hide it from her. I laugh, I smile, I say, "I'm fine" so many times it's starting to sound like a lie even to me.
But deep down... I think she knows. She's a mom. She sees things.
And my sister... I've expected her to notice, but she doesn't. She's been so caught up with Malachi and preparing for college that someti— never mind.
There are nights I lie awake with my baby on my chest and cry so silently it hurts. It's not his fault. He's perfect. He's the only reason I'm still going.
But this sadness... this weight I carry... it's like I'm stuck underwater and everyone's watching me float, thinking I'm swimming.
I think it's postpartum depression. I haven't said that out loud before. Not to anyone. Not even myself. Because admitting it means I have to confront it. And right now, all I know how to do is survive.
I wish I could tell someone. I wish I could look my mom in the eyes and say, "I'm not strong today." But I'm scared of what that would mean. I don't want her to worry. I don't want to be a burden.
But some days... I want to fall into her arms and let her carry me, just for a moment. Because being a mom is the hardest thing I've ever done.
And being a teen mom? It feels like no one prepared me for this. No one tells you how lonely it gets. How invisible you start to feel.
This wasn't meant to be my life, and I understand that there are always consequences for our actions. However, deep down, all I'm trying to say is that I need a break.
But I keep going. Because I have to. Because he needs me. Because I promised myself I wouldn't give up. Even when I want to.
It was just another shift. Another Saturday. Same uniform, same fries, same fake "my pleasure" I've been saying on autopilot.
I was running on maybe two hours of sleep, my back ached, and my feet were throbbing, but I kept moving. I always do.
Then this woman comes up to the counter, all attitude and entitlement, waving her bag in my face like I'd personally ruined her life.
