I became pregnant at 19, dropped out of university, and moved to Mexico. It sounds absolutely crazy — I know. But it’s all true.
Seven years ago, I was living in a tiny studio apartment in London with a friend and my boyfriend of just three months, Pedro. I was studying Hotel and Business Management and interning at The Landmark Hotel, while Pedro spent his days walking all over London, desperately trying to find work. He had just graduated university and, against his family’s wishes, followed me to London. We were young, naïve, wildly in love, and completely inseparable.
Finding a job turned out to be much harder than Pedro expected, but even with very little money, we were having the time of our lives. We picnicked in Hyde Park, shared pints at our local pub, and danced through London’s nightclubs. My hotel shifts alternated between early mornings and late nights, and no matter the weather — rain or shine, and often rain — Pedro walked me to work and picked me up every single day. On my birthday, he surprised me by waiting outside the staff exit with a brand-new Michael Kors wallet. His grandmother had sent him money, and instead of spending it on food or rent, he chose to buy me a gift. We truly had no worries and lived completely in the moment, flying by the seat of our pants.
When my period was just one day late, I somehow knew I was pregnant. I bought a test from the corner store — negative. Pedro laughed lovingly, convinced I was worrying for nothing. But I still knew. The next day, I bought another test. This one was positive. I waved it in Pedro’s face, my stomach full of butterflies. I can honestly say I wasn’t upset for a single second — and neither was Pedro. I had always wanted to be a mother, and we were deeply in love. Still, we knew we had a lot to figure out.
After only a few days — which now feels like proof of how immature we were — we came up with a “plan” and began sharing the news. Telling my father was terrifying. Even with an ocean between us, the thought of telling him made my hands shake. I wrote him an email, telling him not to worry, because Pedro and I had a plan. That plan involved dropping out of school and moving to Mexico, where Pedro had a job waiting. Looking back, I completely understand how irresponsible this must have sounded to a father. His teenage daughter, moving across the world to a country she didn’t know, didn’t speak the language of, and didn’t understand the customs — pregnant and starting a whole new life.
Pedro told his mom by sending her a string of grandma emojis. Again, not our most mature moment. What I’m endlessly grateful for is that neither my parents nor Pedro’s ever mentioned abortion. I now understand how worried and helpless they must have felt, yet all we received was support. That kindness still means everything to me.
A few weeks later, for my 20th birthday, Pedro and I traveled to the Netherlands to visit my father. It was awkward, filled with difficult conversations. My father is usually very composed, but when we tried to reassure him that Pedro would open his own business in Mexico, he momentarily lost his composure and blurted out exactly how he felt: “Bullsh*t.” Still, he never tried to stop us. We left that visit as ready as we could be to step into the next chapter of our lives.
While our families stood by us, my friends did not. Telling my high school girlfriends was one of the hardest parts. I was emotional, vulnerable, and overwhelmed. One by one, they encouraged me to have an abortion and return to “normal” life. One friend didn’t hold back at all: “You’re only nineteen. Think about your body — it’ll be ruined forever, and so will your life.” Those words cut deeply, and they still echo in my head years later. How could my body matter more than my baby?
Feeling judged and misunderstood, I withdrew from the friends I once called soulmates. I wish now that I had taken more photos during my pregnancy. At the time, I was afraid any image would invite gossip or negativity. I have only a handful of photos from that season, and I treasure them. If you’re reading this and going through something similar — take the photo. Make the album. One day, you’ll be glad you did.
Leaving Europe behind, I traveled to Washington, D.C., where my mom, sisters, and extended family lived. They rallied around me with love, even throwing me a baby shower. I felt deeply supported, and that warmth has stayed with me ever since.
Two of my closest friends lived in New York, just hours away, and both promised they’d come to the shower. I thought maybe things were changing. On the day of the shower, neither showed up. One left me waiting outside the train station — she never even arrived. Two days later, I received a half-hearted apology. My heart was shattered. I still don’t fully understand why my choice to keep my child ended every friendship I had, but it did, and it was painful and confusing.
Despite the heartbreak, my family and Pedro wrapped me and our unborn baby in love. When it was time to travel to Mexico City, Pedro’s family welcomed me with open arms. Even with the language barrier, I felt deeply accepted, and my hurting heart finally found peace.
At 42 weeks pregnant, after three days of active labor, six hours of pushing, a hospital transfer, and an emergency C-section, our son Pedro was born. Throughout it all, Pedro and my mother never left my side. They held my hand, rubbed my back, combed my hair. In that moment, I learned something I still believe deeply: when someone loves you through your hardest moments, selflessly, that love is a gift beyond measure.
Labor was terrifying. My fever raged during the C-section, and the surgeon bluntly declared, “I saved you from the jaws of death,” while I lay open on the table. He told us that had we waited even an hour longer, both my son and I would have died. As I was stitched up and drifted into sleep, Pedro held his newborn son — his namesake — against his chest for the very first time. When I woke in recovery, I couldn’t stop staring at our baby. I didn’t want to blink. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that he was here — and that he was mine.
Losing friends was devastating. As a teenager, friendships feel like your entire world. Some have partially healed over time, but not one girl from my high school friend group attended our wedding when Pedro was four. Pregnancy taught me the true meaning of family and unconditional love — something I will never take for granted. That lesson shaped me into a better daughter, sister, mother, wife, and in-law.
As for Pedro and me — our love only grew stronger. We’re married now and proud parents of three boys: Pedro, Nico, and Sebastian. We’re also business owners, having built a successful six-figure business in just two years, starting with only $500. That business allows me to stay home with our children while chasing my dreams. We now live in Colorado, probably the youngest on our block by a decade, surrounded by a supportive community. We believe in growth, loving fiercely, and persevering toward our goals.
I have big plans for our company and deep pride in the life we’re building and the children we’re raising. I’m sharing my story for young mothers who feel boxed in, judged, or abandoned. Being a young mom is not a curse. You may face criticism and doubt — but you can still dream, succeed, and thrive.
