Maddi’s Testimony (In her own voice)

My life was not easy, and it didn’t start out the way I wish it had. I struggled with my mental health for most of my life, even before I had words for what I was feeling. When I was only five years old, I was taken away from my mom. Even though there were moments of happiness growing up, it was not a great life, and I always felt the absence of my mother deeply.

When I was fifteen, I went to live with my maternal grandparents. That’s when people finally tried to help my mental health in serious ways—but I didn’t want it. I fought them. I fought doctors. I fought medication. For three years, from fifteen to eighteen, I resisted everything meant to help me. I was headstrong, stubborn, and determined to do things my way.

At seventeen, I was sent to a behavioral health facility. As hard as that season was, it was the place where I received the best help I ever had. While I was there, I made lifelong friendships. I helped others—sometimes without even realizing it. Even in my own brokenness, God was using me to encourage and support people around me.

I’ve always been extremely organized. Order made me feel safe. I liked things just right, clean, and planned. ‘Every door had to shut from the time I could walk, I was running around closing any door that was left open. Sometimes that drove people a little crazy—but it was part of who I was.

When I came home at eighteen, I struggled again. I went backward for a while before I could move forward. Eventually, I moved back in with my mom. I loved her, but I didn’t like rules, and I wanted control over my own life. So I chose to couch surf and live on my own terms, even when it wasn’t stable.

When I was nineteen, my health took a scary turn. I started having heart issues. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They gave me medication and sent me home without answers. Six months later, I found out I was pregnant.

I was so happy.

Early in my pregnancy—around eight to twelve weeks—I had another heart episode and spent a week in the hospital. Still no answers. Three weeks later, it happened again. While I was back in the hospital, doctors asked me if I wanted to terminate my pregnancy because of the risk to my life.

I said absolutely not.

I told them that if it ever came down to me or my baby, they were to save my baby.

Halfway through my pregnancy, I struggled again—with my heart and with my mental health. But in the last four months, I moved back home. I started preparing for my son, Zane. I was so excited to meet him, and I was also afraid. I worried I wouldn’t be good enough to be his mom.

But something changed in me.

In the last two months of my pregnancy, I grew up in ways even I could feel. In the last two to three weeks, I reorganized the whole house. I needed everything in order. I needed things prepared. That’s just who I was—but it was also my way of getting ready.

The moment I laid eyes on Zane, my world was complete.

I loved being his mom. I was good at it. It came naturally to me. In the last week of my life, I spent time teaching my mom things about Zane—details she didn’t think she needed to know. Every time she told me, “You’re his mom, I don’t need to know all this,” I told her, “Just in case you need to know at some point.”

I don’t know if I knew my time was short, or if God was quietly preparing her heart for what was coming. Only He knows.

The Friday before I passed, my mom and I sat at the kitchen table and talked about our faith. I asked questions that may have seemed strange or confusing at the time, but I needed her to know—without doubt—that I was saved, that I trusted Jesus, and that I knew where I was going.

When I was 32 weeks pregnant, I made my mom go to church with me. That day, she gave her life back to the Lord. God used me to bring her home to Him, and that means everything to me.

I planned to go back to work after my six-week checkup. I didn’t know my time would be shorter. I left this world when Zane was just three and a half weeks old—but my love for him did not leave with me.

My life was full of struggle, but it was also full of purpose. Mental illness did not define me. It did not erase my love, my courage, or my faith.

If my story speaks to you, let it say this:

God meets us even when we are weary.

Broken paths can still lead to Him.

With Love,

Maddi