Faded Dreams, Teen Pregnancy, & Anxiety Overload
This is not a planner.
It’s not a reset.
And it’s not here to rush your healing.
The Hollow Quill Reflection Journal is a 10-page guided digital journal created to help you slow down, reflect honestly, and close the year with intention — without pressure or perfection.
Designed for women who want to acknowledge the year they actually lived, this journal offers thoughtful prompts for gratitude, awareness, and gentle self-discovery.
This is not a planner.
It’s not a reset.
And it’s not here to rush your healing.
The Hollow Quill Reflection Journal is a 21-page guided digital journal created to help you slow down, reflect honestly, and close the year with intention — without pressure or perfection.
Designed for women who want to acknowledge the year they actually lived, this journal offers thoughtful prompts for gratitude, awareness, and gentle self-discovery.
| 15oz | |
|---|---|
| Height, in | 4.84 |
| Width with Handle, in | 4.92 |
| Diameter, in | 3.43 |
The Coffee Mug Tumbler is your perfect companion for cozy mornings or afternoon pick-me-ups. With its stylish design and ergonomic handle, this tumbler elevates your coffee experience while fitting seamlessly into your daily routine. Whether you’re at work or enjoying a leisurely weekend at home, it’s ideal for coffee enthusiasts and tea lovers alike. This tumbler is a great gift for birthdays, holiday celebrations, or just to show you care. Its sleek aesthetic adds a modern touch to any kitchen or office space, making it the go-to choice for those who appreciate both style and functionality.
Product features
- Ergonomic handle for comfortable grip
- Leak-proof lid for spill-free transport
- Durable stainless steel construction
- Double-wall insulation for hot or cold drinks
- 14 oz capacity, perfect for everyday use
Care instructions
- Hand wash only
EU representative: HONSON VENTURES LIMITED, gpsr@honsonventures.com, 3, Gnaftis House flat 102, Limassol, Mesa Geitonia, 4003, CY
Product information: Polar Camel, 2 year warranty in EU and Northern Ireland as per Directive 1999/44/EC
Warnings, Hazard: Blank product sourced from Vietnam, For adults
Care instructions: Hand wash only
We all have dreams whilst a Sophomore in high school, but sometimes those sky high stilettos are traded in for stretch marks, leaky nipples, and sleepless nights for the next three years.
So tell me…
What were your biggest, loudest, glitter-drenched dreams before life flipped the damn script and ripped them out of your friend photo covered, Trapper Keeper?
You know the ones — the “I’m going to be someone” dreams. The Oscar speech in the mirror dreams.
The fuck you, I’m different dreams.
Then BAM — life comes barreling in like a hormonal wrecking ball — with a plus sign on a pregnancy test, a panic attack in a Target bathroom.
How did you rebuild from the rubble? What did it look like when you clawed your way out — nails broken, false lashes askew, looking exactly like the cum catching contraptions they were made for— and yet, you decided to keep going?
Because maybe your wildest dreams were never meant to stay pretty.
Maybe they were meant to get dragged through the chaos, spit on reality, stitched back together with trauma and tenacity— just like your perineum, until they became unshakeable.
And maybe now — right now— is when you stop waiting for the “perfect time” and start dragging those gritty, grown- ass dreams out of hiding.
The version you always knew was waiting — underneath the rubble, the spit-up, the panic attacks, the bullshit, and the “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE.”
You didn’t come this far just to bury your dreams under a pile full of “maybe’s.”
Write about it, and let’s discuss!
Ah yes, the sweet, sweet joy one feels when those two faded, piss-soaked pink lines show up on a pregnancy test. Magical, really. Like being kicked off AOL mid- AIM convo with your crush — but instead of losing your dignity in a chat room, once again. You’re losing your childhood to a positive pregnancy test and a future full of breast pumps, shitty diapers, and more anxiety than my old “service” dog, Napoleon.
He was of absolute no service.
Cue the hormonal sobbing and the gut-wrenching realization that your body is no longer your own – it’s now the exclusive home of a jelly bean-sized gremlin that’s going to depend on you for everything.
Like a Tamagotchi you forgot to feed—except this one screams in utero and comes with hospital bills.
No one knows yet.
You’re carrying the weight of this life-altering news while simultaneously reflecting on the genius decision to raw dog it at fifteen.
Those “butterflies” in your stomach??
Yeah – those aren’t butterflies.
Those are the first flutters churning the French toast you ate for breakfast. And right on cue, you projectile-vomit chunky cinnamon shame all over the freshly scrubbed shower tiles.
Naturally, you run downstairs, Oscar-worthy tears on standby, and beg your poor, unsuspecting father to clean up your mess. Which he does – because you’re “clearly coming down with something.”
Yeah. A baby, Dad. I’m coming down with a whole ass baby.
Rebuilding your body and nervous system after trauma and motherhood isn’t aesthetic — it’s survival. Here’s what actually helped me.
Gutted doesn’t begin to cover it.
Lying to my dad was a soul-sucker. I was and still am his HEART - he’s called me this since I was a little girl. Ironically, his actual heart is trash – barely functioning at 40% held together with enough stents to make a junk yard jealous, and reliant on a pacemaker that is due for a tune-up relatively soon.
He was my safe space. The only person I could cry to without feeling like I needed to apologize for existing.
But this secret?
This was too big. I couldn’t trust him to keep it from my mother – and let’s be clear, talking about sex with my straight-off-the-boat Puerto Rican Mom? Absolutely the fuck not.
So I did what every scared, emotionally unstable, freshly-knocked up teen girl does: I told my friend. And secretly hoped she’d agree it was a good idea to also get pregnant – so we could suffer together in sisterhood.
Spoiler alert: she did not co-sign that delusion.
I wasn’t just thrown into adulthood – I sprinted toward it like it was a vibrating, 24-speed, his-and-her end luxury dildo on clearance. What is wrong with me?
Don’t answer that.
Goodbye to the catwalk dreams I held onto while growing up. I was supposed to be the next big thing. I imagined Tyra Banks screaming my name, Miss J giving me that “you did it, bitch” nod, then being announced season three’s winner of America’s Next Top Model like it was always meant to be.
Then, like every great model, I’d transition into the entertainment business. Because obviously we need to start dabbling into other arts.
Once my modeling manager realizes my singer career is nonexistent, we transition into acting.
I could see it so clearly: standing on stage, Oscar in hand, thanking my fans, kids, and parents, as my mom ugly-cried into a sparkly St. Laurent clutch.
Classic.
But life had other plans. Plans that included dry cracked nipples, stretch marks, saggy tits, and WIC checks.
I made an oath to myself and swore I wouldn’t become another “teen mom” cliché. I wasn’t going to allow my children to end up in the system because their mother wanted to relive her youth. Partying, doing drugs, just to overdose and leave my kids alone in the world.
NO. FUCKING. WAY.
Failure has happened more times in my life than I can count. However, I don’t let it define me any longer. And I’m not ashamed of it. For, it’s what has shaped me into the woman I am today.
Once I had my daughter, the dreams didn’t disappear, but they did get fogged up by the diapers and severe panic attacks. I dropped weight fast – sickly fast— and not on purpose.
My anxiety was a beast I didn’t yet know how to tame. Even while pregnant with Livy, I could barely eat, only gaining thirteen pounds throughout the entirety of my pregnancy.
Not because I didn’t want to get fat – I would have welcomed a donut binge with open arms – but because I felt like I was constantly critically ill inside. My body always vibrating with anxiety just under the surface of my epidermis, ready for everything and anything to go wrong.
While my first panic attack hit while I was still pregnant, that shit cracked open a whole new level of paranoia. I became hyper-aware of everything – except the quality of men I dated. Go figure.
And then – plot twist – I got DISCOVERED.
Walking out of the store from my first job, a modeling manager left his card at the front desk. He asked my coworker to have me call him.
Me? Sixteen. A mom. And apparently still that bitch who can make her dreams come true.
I called. We met. I signed
My dreams?? Not dead – about to come true… until I found out I was pregnant again at eighteen with my son.
And there went the runway dreams… Again.
ANTM quickly becoming an acronym for ‘American’s Next Teenage Mom.’
I had dreams. Big-ass, beautifully delusional dreams. I wanted to pay off my parents’ house. Send them vacationing on lavish excursions. Become the matriarch that turned pain into prosperity. I imagined being the one who changed the family legacy. And in a way – I still do… and I am.
Now, at the tender, totally-legit age of “twenty-nine,” my dreams have evolved. They’ve grown hips, stretch scars, three more children, and a whole lot more clarity.
I still want my name out there – the whole reasoning for my blog is to build a platform for my manuscripts. Bringing an audience to my writing and who I am as a person.
However, this is not just for me. It’s for the generations that will follow. I want to build a legacy, not just clout. I want my kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids to know that my mama didn’t fold.
Mama built. Mama wrote her heart out. Mama used her creativity on her own and was no longer frightened to vocalize what she believed in.
So, maybe your dream isn’t dead – it’s just growing a backbone, ditching the glitter pens, and learning how to march beside you instead of floating above you like a delusional daydream with a baby daddy who doesn’t pay child support.
Don’t stop. Don’t stall, and don’t play small.
You are the only one who can bring your vision to life. No one is going to hand it to you on a diamond encrusted crystal platter, served with over priced fish eggs and stinky ass cheese.
Get feral about your goals. Get inappropriate. Get messy.
Feel it. See it. Breathe it. Live it. And then go take what’s yours.
Until next time…
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