Nothing Done in Hatred Will Be Fruitful
There was a time in my life—fifteen years old, a brand-new mom—when the voice in my head was relentless.
“You’re disgusting.”
“No one will ever love you.”
“You have nothing to offer.”
“Why would anyone want you, especially with your baggage?”
“You’re a failure. A whore.”
“You should just disappear.”
These weren’t insults from classmates or strangers. The truth is, most of the kids at my high school were kind, even supportive.
These words came from me.
They were the soundtrack to my life.
At fifteen, I had just given birth, and I was drowning in shame, fear, and self-hatred.
I hated my body. I hated who I thought I was. I hated waking up.
There were only two things that kept me going:
The tiny baby who relied on me for everything—
And the determination to survive, fueled by nothing but sheer will.
I exercised to punish myself, convinced that my only value was in how I looked.
I pushed my body past its limits, once running four miles in the blistering summer heat.
By the time I got home, I was overheating, my skin chafed raw, barely able to stand.
That night, I spiked a fever. I nearly ended up in the hospital.
But I was skinnier.
So I told myself I’d won.
I breastfed, partly because I’d read it helped with weight loss, partly because I loved my baby.
But I couldn’t get back to my pre-pregnancy weight—and it consumed me.
I was binge eating, drinking every weekend while my mom babysat.
I thought I was failing at everything.
Still, I stayed alive—for my son. That’s the power of a mother’s love.
It can drive you to do the impossible, even when you’re breaking.
But that season of my life taught me something I didn’t fully understand until years later:
Nothing done in hatred can be fruitful.
Only love makes things grow.
That inner war continued into my twenties.
On the outside, I looked like I had it together:
Graduated college. Bought a house. Changed careers.
But I was unraveling.
I was 27, burned out, and fighting quiet battles with my mental health.
The truth? I wasn’t holding it together. I was dangling.
I kept trying to fix myself—journaling, walking, pushing through.
But I didn’t realize I’d already hit rock bottom.
And I couldn’t see how much my pain was impacting my son.
Or my relationship.
In 2023, my fiancé and I split.
We later reconciled, but by April 2024, the weight of everything came crashing down.
My son was suicidal.
The same little boy who once saved my life now needed saving himself.
And I realized—I could lose him.
Nothing done in hatred will ever be fruitful.
So I did what I should’ve done years earlier.
I got help.
I put both of us in therapy.
I started rebuilding—not just my life, but my relationship with myself.
And today?
I finished my first CrossFit circuit.
It was brutal. I wanted to quit at least a dozen times.
But I didn’t.
Because I’ve come too far to go back now.
And because fifteen-year-old me deserves this version of me—strong, steady, whole.
My inner voice sounds different now.
“You’re doing great.”
“You’re so strong.”
“You’ve survived harder.”
“You’re not giving up on yourself anymore.”
Today, I turned 30.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel proud.
Acts done in love will flourish.
And I’m finally learning how to love myself enough to grow.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
janainaart
