I have vivid memories from that unforgettable night. I recall disembarking from a school bus and, in a haze of youthful exuberance, wandering into a bar. (Yes, I indulged in a yellow beer bus tour and thought it would be wise to continue drinking!) I devoured wings and fries while downing more beer, likely saying an array of regrettable things and flashing my breasts more than once—typical behavior for me at that age. Eventually, I squeezed into a friend’s car and headed to a strip club to celebrate my birthday.
At 26, my reckless escapades seemed boundless. It was at Philadelphia’s so-called “premiere gentlemen’s establishment” that I reached a breaking point. Sometime between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., I began to unravel. Whether it was the rum shots or the private dance in the champagne room that set me off, I soon found myself sobbing in the restroom about being a terrible person and an even worse mother. Surprisingly, no less than four strippers gathered around me, clad in various states of undress, offering consolation.
Yes, you can laugh. I’ll wait.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, I learned something profound in those moments—”bad” is a relative term. When it comes to parenting, labeling oneself as “bad” often stems from imperfections or the desire for improvement. Many parents who self-identify as “bad” do so because they aspire to be better.
I was overwhelmed with the notion that I would be a “bad mom.” Ironically, this incident occurred four years before I became a mother. My tears that night were rooted in the fear that I was too flawed to embrace motherhood. I longed for a child, yet felt unworthy to conceive.
At that time, I was grappling with $60,000 in student loan debt, entangled in a relationship with an alcoholic, and battling my own mental health issues. Anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts plagued me. Yet, those women—bless them—helped me recognize my flaws as potential strengths.
One woman, dressed in a black bralette, pointed out that my financial struggles would provide valuable lessons for my future children about the importance of hard work. She was dancing to fund her education, striving to create a better life for herself and her child.
Another woman, whose face I can’t quite recall, assured me that my relationship was far from perfect, but my willingness to confront its challenges showcased my bravery. Yet another woman reminded me that my mental health issues wouldn’t hinder my abilities as a parent; rather, they would cultivate empathy and understanding within me.
The greatest lesson, however, came not from their words, but from the strength and determination I witnessed in them. Contrary to common stereotypes, these women were articulate, resilient, and empowered. They were students, graduates, mothers, and daughters.
Today, my only regret about that night is the haziness of the memories and the fact that I can’t fully recall the wisdom they shared. Sure, I regretted the hangover the next day—having to return to the club to retrieve my phone while facing the same bouncers who saw me in tears. But ultimately, that night transformed my life.
What I learned about my perceived “weaknesses” has greatly influenced my journey into motherhood. The encouragement I received helped alleviate my fears about becoming a parent. I didn’t immediately abandon my wild ways; I continued to make questionable choices for a few more years. Yet every misstep came with invaluable lessons, shaping me into the mother I am today.
Reflecting on this, I realize that my wild years undeniably contributed to my growth as a mom. They taught me resilience, empathy, and strength—qualities that are crucial in parenting.
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In summary, my tumultuous youth was not merely a series of reckless experiences; it was a formative period that equipped me with the tools to be a nurturing and understanding mother. The lessons I learned from that night in the strip club and beyond have stayed with me, shaping my approach to motherhood and life.