The Truth About Brave Parenting
Storytime
November 2023
This is the story of why I let my nine-year-old daughter move out of state—and away from me.
Why I allowed it.
And the backlash that followed.
After just two months of living in Pittsburgh, I realized asking her to stay an entire year before making a decision about returning was cruel. It wasn’t just that she needed time to adjust—this was beyond that. She was slipping into an anger and depression so severe it was starting to affect her health. It wasn’t fair to her.
Together—my parents, her father, and I—agreed that the healthiest thing we could do was let her choose where she wanted to live.
But oh, did people have opinions.
And none of them were kind—or supportive.
According to the “experts,” a good mother would’ve moved back to Buffalo.
To keep the family intact.
To make her child happy.
Here’s what I was told:
❌ I was selfish. A spoiled brat who never grew up.
❌ I didn’t deserve my kids.
❌ I was taking advantage of my parents.
❌ She’s a kid—it’s not her decision.
❌ I loved one kid more than the other.
❌ I was choosing to “throw her away.”
❌ I was traumatizing my children.
Ouch.
Those comments hit hard. They poked at old wounds—ones I thought I’d already healed.
Growing up, I was constantly called selfish. Spoiled. A brat.
Eventually, I started to believe it.
I believed younger me was bad. Unworthy.
That I didn’t deserve love. Or friends. Or kindness.
Tab and her daughter getting ready for her first communion — May 2024
It took years of deep work to unravel all of that.
To understand the difference between selfishness and self-respect.
To learn that boundaries don’t make me a bad person—and that putting my needs first isn’t a character flaw.
But even knowing this was the right decision for all of us… those judgments sent me spiraling.
Suddenly I was right back in that place—questioning my worth, trying to defend a choice no one wanted to understand.
Because that’s the thing: society expects mothers to sacrifice themselves for their children.
And when we don’t? We get crucified.
No one who judged me wanted a conversation.
No one asked how I was really doing.
No one wanted to hear that maybe, just maybe, life isn’t black and white.
If they had?
Here’s what I would’ve said:
I moved away to save my own life.
I had reached a breaking point where waking up felt harder than not.
I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel like me.
And I knew if I stayed in Buffalo, I’d stay broken.
I’d stay stuck.
I needed to go somewhere far enough away that no one could rescue me.
I needed to rebuild myself without leaning on someone else’s strength.
And Buffalo couldn’t offer that.
The trauma lived on every corner.
The reminders were relentless.
If I stayed, my kids would’ve been raised by a version of me that was numb.
A shell.
And they deserve so much more than that.
I deserve more than that.
By the time two months passed, I was finally starting to shine again.
But Charlotte wasn’t.
She was angry. Hurt. Unraveling.
And having just come out of that exact emotional spiral myself, I knew what it could do to a person.
It wasn’t fair to ask her to keep holding that weight.
So we made the call, together. As a family.
Now? She’s thriving. Living with her dad and grandparents.
Her brother and I are thriving here in Pittsburgh.
And while this isn’t the life I envisioned—divorced, one kid on the couch next to me, the other three hours away—it’s working.
We’re happy. We’re healing.
And that’s what matters.
Knowing I made the best decision for us doesn’t make the criticism easier.
But it did teach me a few things:
✨ It made me face beliefs I didn’t realize I still held.
✨ It reminded me how deeply judgment can cut—even when it’s wrong.
✨ It forced me to block friends and family who couldn’t see me clearly.
✨ It showed me the cost of closed-mindedness. And the power of choosing yourself anyway.
