A Mother’s Cost

Have you ever seen those stories—where a mother suddenly has this unbelievable strength? Lifting something she shouldn’t be able to lift, reacting in a split second to pull her child out of harm’s way?

It almost sounds unbelievable… until you realize it’s not.

Because something shifts when you become a mother. It’s biological, emotional, instinctual—all at once. You don’t just care for your child… you become responsible for their safety, their world, their experience of life. You lose sleep wondering if they’re breathing. You carry a constant awareness of their well-being that never fully turns off.

And while a father’s love is real, important, and deeply needed, a mother’s bond is different. It’s formed in the quiet, unseen moments—every kick, every change, every sacrifice of her own body to grow and protect something outside of herself. That kind of connection changes how you see everything. It changes what feels safe… and what doesn’t.

I recently had to make a hard choice to protect my purpose.

To be very clear—my purpose was never in physical danger. But protection isn’t always about what is happening. Sometimes it’s about what could happen… what you’ve seen before… what you know, deep down, you can’t ignore.

Every mother learns to assess risk through her own lens—through her experiences, her past, the things she’s witnessed and felt. And in this moment, something didn’t sit right in mine.

I had seen behaviors that felt like a threat—not to safety in the obvious sense, but to something just as important. To how my purpose would come to understand life… family… love. We had worked so hard to protect that little mind through a difficult season. And in a moment, it felt like that protection was being tested.

What shook me most wasn’t just the behavior—it was the disregard for boundaries. Watching a child’s boundaries be overlooked, even after they were clearly expressed and supported, did something to me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough.

Because if a boundary can be ignored there… how could I believe it wouldn’t be ignored again?

How could I not see that as a risk?

Protecting your child from a perceived threat—whether physical or emotional—isn’t new. It’s instinct. It’s wired into us.

And it doesn’t just exist in humans.

During one of my scrolling days on social media, I came across a clip that stopped me. It spoke directly to something in me—something I didn’t fully understand at the time, but it calmed a fear I had been carrying. The fear of knowing that sometimes, as a mother, you have to do hard… even risky things to protect your purpose.

The clip showed a lion sitting in the desert. A cub was playfully growling, pawing at him—innocent, curious. Then suddenly, the lion swatted at the cub.

Almost instantly, the lioness stepped in.

She walked right up to him, nose to nose. And for a brief moment, you think—this could go very differently. But she didn’t back down. She held her ground. Stared him down. And then, after a few seconds, she gave him a firm swat across the face.

Watching it, my mind immediately filled in the words:
What are you doing? Absolutely not.

It wasn’t about aggression. It was about a line being drawn.

That moment grounded me. Because even at the risk of being challenged—or worse—she stepped in and said no. Do not do that.

And while, yes, we live in a world where videos can be altered or generated, this behavior isn’t unfamiliar in the wild. You see it across species—bears, elephants, lions, even crocodiles. A mother’s response is driven by her perception of threat. Not just what is happening—but what could happen.

Because protection isn’t only physical.

The lion likely wasn’t going to seriously harm the cub. But what about the impact? What if that moment changed how the cub interacted? What if it created fear where there had once been safety?

As parents, we’re not just protecting bodies—we’re protecting minds. Experiences. The way our children come to understand love, safety, and connection.

After making the decision to push for sole custody, I knew it would be seen in a way I couldn’t control.

To me, it felt like the only path to fully protect my purpose from something I perceived as a threat. But I also knew what it might cost me. I knew I could be risking the love of my life—the person who helped create that purpose.

And I knew my choice wouldn’t be understood.

It wouldn’t be seen as protection. It would likely be seen as control. As taking something away. As an attack.

The words “sole custody” carry weight. They sound final. Harsh. Like something is being ripped away.

But that was never my intention.

Even in the hardest season of my life, I have never wanted to take my purpose away from anyone who loves them. Early on—before I started healing—did those thoughts cross my mind? Yes. But I couldn’t act on them. Because I knew my purpose would suffer from that kind of loss. And I would never choose something that harms them to ease my own pain.

If anything, I’ve done the opposite.

I’ve swallowed pain. Sat in discomfort. Made choices that hurt me—because I believed they were better for them.

So while others may not agree with my decision, I have to stand in what I know to be true: my history shows that I protect, not harm.

And still… I knew the cost of this choice.

But the question that stayed with me was this:

Would my person have ever loved me if I wasn’t the kind of mother who would step in—who would stand in front of perceived harm and say no… even if it meant standing against them?

I hope not.

Because the kind of love I believed we shared—the kind that created our purpose—should also honor the kind of mother I am.

Even when it’s hard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it’s not understood.

As our family moves forward into the unknown, I understand that my actions may never be forgiven. And I’ve had to come to terms with that.

Because I know, deep in my core, that what I did was the next right thing for my purpose.

I knew the love I had could be lost forever. And as a mother, we make sacrifices like that—ones that may never be understood. And I’ve learned that it’s okay if they aren’t. Not all of us are called to love this way.

I know God has carried me through every part of this journey. And I believe that choosing to live in this kind of sacrificial love for my child is something He is proud of.

I trust that He will work in the hearts of others—that one day they may see this not as an attack, but as protection. As love.

Because that’s what it was.

A sacrifice.
A choice.
A protection of my purpose.

And I’m grateful I had the courage to let go of something I prayed so hard to have back… because my purpose needed me to choose him.