People stare. A lot.
In the grocery store, at the park, even just walking down the sidewalk with my four strollers lined up like a baby parade. Sometimes I hear whispers. Sometimes it’s not even subtle—“Are they all yours?” “Where’s the dad?” “Girl, you must be exhausted.”

And yeah, I am tired. Some days it feels like my bones are made of spilled formula and baby wipes. But every time I look at them—all four of their sweet little faces, wrapped in pink and soft sighs—I feel this weird kind of peace. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

I had the first two at nineteen—twins. That was already enough to make most people panic. But then life kept rolling, and two more came along before I turned 23. And no, I’m not with their dad. Or any of their dads, actually. I don’t say that with shame, just honesty.

There’s this stereotype that a woman like me—young, single, with multiple kids—isn’t capable of handling it. That I must be overwhelmed or just making poor choices. But that’s not the reality. My babies, my four beautiful little ones, are my world. They’ve brought me joy that I never could have imagined when I was younger, even before they were born. They have taught me more about love, patience, and resilience than any book or class ever could.

I don’t look at myself as some tragic figure. Sure, life hasn’t always been a fairy tale. When I was pregnant with the twins, I was barely out of high school, still figuring out who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. But having them pushed me to grow in ways I never thought possible. I learned to juggle the sleepless nights and the constant demands of newborns, and though it was tough, I loved them with everything I had. I made it work.

The second set came along when I wasn’t expecting it, but looking back, I’m glad they did. My heart had space for them, and so did my home, even if the balance was tricky at times. With each child, I became more confident in who I was and what I was capable of. There was nothing in the world that could stop me from being a good mother.

But despite all of that, there’s something people don’t seem to understand. I’m still me. Yes, I’m a mom, and that’s a huge part of who I am, but I’m also still a woman with dreams, with ambitions, and with more love to give. I get asked all the time, “When are you going to stop? Aren’t you tired of having kids?” The answer is always the same: I don’t know when I’ll stop. Maybe never.

I have a lot of love to give, and a lot of space in my heart for more. I’ve heard the whispers about me—about how irresponsible I must be, how I shouldn’t have more kids when I can barely keep up with the ones I have. But what they don’t see is that my kids are my world, and I know what I’m doing. I know how to manage, how to create a routine, how to make sure my babies have everything they need.

Sure, there are days when I get overwhelmed. There are days when I look at the laundry piling up or hear the endless “Mom!” calls and wonder how I’ll keep going. But then I look at them—their bright eyes, their little hands reaching for me—and all the exhaustion melts away. They’re my world, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

One day, as I was walking down the street with the twins in front, and the younger two in tow, I noticed a woman staring at us from across the street. She was standing by the bus stop, arms folded, her lips pursed. I had seen her around before but had never exchanged more than a few polite smiles. Today, however, she didn’t smile. Instead, she shook her head, as if disappointed.

I ignored her, as I always did with people who thought they knew what was best for me. But just as I reached the corner, I heard her voice calling out to me.

“Hey, you!” she shouted.

I turned, expecting to hear some sort of criticism or judgment, but she surprised me.

“You’re doing a great job,” she said, her voice softer now. “I see you every day with your kids, and you’re always so calm and loving. I just wanted you to know that.”

I blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

“Thank you,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “That means a lot.”

She smiled back and walked away, and for the first time in a while, I felt a glimmer of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time: pride. Maybe I didn’t fit into the mold everyone thought I should. Maybe my life didn’t follow the same script as most people’s. But I was doing the best I could, and it was working.

As the months went on, I became more at peace with my choices. I wasn’t going to apologize for who I was or what I wanted. I loved my kids fiercely, and I loved being a mother. And while I knew some people might never understand why I wanted more, I also knew it didn’t matter. They didn’t have to understand. This was my life.

But then came a curveball. One afternoon, I was sitting on the porch, watching the kids play in the yard when I got a call from my cousin, Leah. She was the only person in my family who ever really understood me—who didn’t judge me for being different or for making unconventional choices.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been looking into adoption programs, and I found one that might be perfect for you.”

I blinked. Adoption? I hadn’t considered it before, but the idea of giving a child a loving home tugged at my heart in a way I couldn’t ignore. Leah went on to explain that there were kids in the system who needed stable homes, homes like mine—homes full of love and care.

“You’ve got space in your heart for more, don’t you?” she asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I had more than enough love to give. But was I ready to take on the responsibility of another child?

But as I looked out at my little ones, I knew the answer. Yes, I was ready. I had the space, the love, and the patience. Maybe I wasn’t done yet. Maybe my journey as a mother wasn’t over, and maybe, just maybe, there was still a child out there who needed me as much as my own kids needed me.

A few weeks later, after paperwork, interviews, and a lot of nervous anticipation, I was approved to foster a young girl who had been in and out of the system for years. She was sweet, a little shy, but had the most incredible smile that lit up a room.

Bringing her into our home wasn’t easy—there were struggles and adjustments. But with time, she became part of the family. And as the months passed, I realized that the love I had so freely given to my children had somehow multiplied. There was more than enough for everyone.

Here’s the twist: as I sat down with my caseworker one day, discussing the possibility of adoption, she told me something unexpected. My new daughter’s biological mother, who had been out of the picture for years, had returned and was interested in reclaiming custody.

It was bittersweet. I didn’t want to lose her, but I also knew that sometimes love means letting go, especially if it’s what’s best for the child. In the end, we decided that she would return to her birth mother. But even in that decision, I felt the full weight of what motherhood truly meant: sacrifice, growth, and the courage to do what was right for her, even if it meant heartbreak for me.

The experience left me changed, but not in the way I thought it would. I thought I wanted more children, but what I realized was that it wasn’t about the number of kids, but the quality of love. I didn’t need to fill the house with more babies to prove I was a good mother.

What I really needed was to give the best of myself to the ones who needed me most, and to trust that the love I had to give would always find its way to the right people.

And now, whenever someone asks me how many kids I want, I just smile and say, “I have all the children I could ever need.” Because in the end, it’s not about the number—it’s about the love we share. And that’s more than enough.

If you’ve ever been judged for your choices, remember: you’re doing the best you can. Embrace your path, even if it looks different from others. Share your love, and don’t be afraid to trust your heart.

Please share this with anyone who might need a reminder that love is what matters most. Let’s spread some positivity today.