I faced so much judgment when my oldest was born in 1993. At first, it grated on me a little, but over the years, the lack of acceptance has polished me. I’m not here to impress everyone, but I deserve community too. I’m not about to give up my favorite parts of me in order to make other people more comfortable.
My first daughter arrived six weeks before my 20th birthday. In preparation, I devoured every book on pregnancy, parenting, breastfeeding, and childbirth the library had. I was terrified—but determined. Knowledge is power, so I armed myself with research, determined to do my best.
On the day she was born, that preparation paid off. I had written a four-page birth plan rejecting nearly every routine intervention. I had trained, studied, and prepared—and the birth went exactly as I planned:
- No meds
- No cutting my body
- No bright lights in her face
- Delayed cord clamping
- Immediate skin-to-skin contact
- No time in the nursery—she stayed with me
- Immediate breastfeeding
Friends and family weren’t supportive. “Trust the doctors.” “Don’t be a martyr.” “Just take the drugs.” They assumed I would fail. But their doubts taught me my first lesson in parenting: nobody is more invested in my children’s wellness than I am.
They misunderstood my values, so their criticism missed the mark. They called me a martyr, but to me, hospital birthers were the martyrs, sacrificing their bodies to medical routines that didn’t serve them. The naysayers only strengthened my convictions: I would do things my way, and they could keep their medical interventions. Childbirth is a human being’s entry into the world—why would I want either of us incapacitated? (Ah, the dramatic clarity of a 19-year-old heretic investigator)
The Criticism Never Stopped
I loved being a mother and kept making decisions people hated. First, it was natural birth. Then breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing, hiking with kids, avoiding refined sugars and flours, and finally the homeschooling.
By the time my oldest was a year old, I was deeply involved in our local homeschooling community, the Antelope Valley’s Rose Rock Homeschool Support Group (a secular organization). I wasn’t just participating—I was organizing events, teaching co-op classes, and running the website and newsletter.
The biggest fear people had? Socialization. So I ensured we were constantly engaged.
My ex-laws objected. Random strangers objected. But I built a supportive community around me, full of families crafting education around our children rather than forcing our kids to conform to a system that wasn’t designed to serve individuals. People’s objections made sense to me—most had never thought about education beyond what they had experienced. But someone else’s unexamined impulse didn’t seem like a good enough reason to alter my plans.
I was reasonably certain that if they REALLY researched, they’d realize I was right. I was also reasonably certain that I didn’t care. My job was raising my kids, not convincing other people not to be mad at me for my choices. I used to write about homeschooling, and as we merged into the unschooling culture, I wrote about that. I still believe that Ivan Illich’s vision of a Deschooled Society represents the gold standard of sustainable, secular, personalized human learning potential. I also believe a nation that guts the Department of Education can not be trusted with children. I also believe that schools should be safe, fun, intellectually stimulating, secular, optional, and gender-neutral.
Living Outside the Norm Means Less Support
When you live outside society’s rules, asking for help feels dangerous. People who don’t understand your choices can’t offer solutions that meet your needs.
I’ll never forget when we moved to Washington State and someone told me, “If you put your kids in school, you’ll have time to make friends.”
I stared at them, shocked. “Why would I want to be friends with someone who doesn’t care about their child’s education?”
Not my most shining moment, but also not the worst. Over time, I realized that most parents do care deeply about their kids’ education. And later, as a single mom working 70 hours a week, I became that parent—the one people might assume “didn’t care” because I could barely even keep track of what day of the week it was under those circumstances. I just had to trust that my kids were ok in school in order to focus on generating income.
Working full-time while side-hustling, running a house, and single-parenting meant I was just actually reallllllyyy bad at all those things.
Don’t let 2010 me read the previous paragraph, divorce was still worth it. Every single day since it ended, I’ve been grateful to be liberated from that.
Who Cares What People Think?
By the time my divorce was finalized, I was thrilled to rebuild my life. People had their criticisms—but why would I care? These were the same people who wanted me to stay in a miserable marriage. Preserve your own misery, weirdo. Happy marriages don’t end in divorce.
Still, folks will always have opinions. There’s always a hater somewhere. But I have never once met a woman who regrets her divorce.
When I was busy raising kids, I didn’t have time to care what anyone thought. My inner compass guided me. I built the kind of life I wanted, even when reality fought me every step of the way.
I never fantasized about a career. I thought I’d be just a mother. I didn’t understand that dependence makes women vulnerable. I believed it was the traditional way for families to be. I didn’t realize children suffer when their mother is trapped. I didn’t realize that nuclear families were a modern invention and that there’s nothing at all traditional about it.
I thought I’d get to decide what kind of mom I wanted to be and live that life. But decisions don’t mean much when the people in power have made different ones. When I realized my ex wouldn’t be a breadwinner, I just added it to my task list.
I woke up at 4-5 AM every day, seven days a week, to earn a full day’s income before my kids woke up. I was determined not to let working interfere with mothering.
I failed at that too.
Weaponizing Social Approval
I remember a moment when “SoMeOnE” tried to manipulate me by repeating nasty things other people (supposedly) said. This is a classic narcissistic abuse tactic. When I didn’t react how they wanted, they said, “You know what’s wrong with you? You just don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”
I considered it. Then agreed.
To this day, I still agree.
No second-hand report of “what someone thinks” interests me. If anything, it makes me distrust the speaker. Decent people don’t communicate like that.
But the technique worked. It took years to fact-check, and I discovered those cruel words had been fabricated. The deepest pains are the ones orchestrated by someone who claims to love you. Even though I rejected the manipulation, the hurt lingered.
There are still people who will never know they were weaponized against me. Instead of cleaning up my “reputation,” I just moved forward, focusing on my kids and mistrusting former friends due to a history they will never know about.
Kids Deserve for Their Moms to be Fully Resourced
Of course, life didn’t unfold as I planned. I didn’t want to work outside the home after my divorce—but I had to. Sometimes up to 70 hours a week. Eventually, my kids chose public school; a home where Mom is always working isn’t exactly stimulating. One important thing about unschooling is trusting your kids to build their own lives and to own their minds and education. That’s the part that appealed to me the most about it, because that’s what young me needed. Everyone tells you to be the person younger-you needed, and I needed to NOT force kids to conform to the needs of an institution.
After my divorce, I ran online businesses, published books at night, and managed operations for a boutique grocery store in Seattle. At my peak, I was back in college (Anthropology at the University of Washington Seattle) and owned my own home.
That fact brings me enormous comfort—my descendants will know that in 2019, against all odds, I, Lisa Russell, single mom, owned real property. I existed for a minute, in the material world. “Nana’s house” was a thing. Losing that home hit harder than any death. So be gentle.
It wasn’t the life I originally envisioned, but that’s okay. This mom-of-minors era ends in just a few months and after 30+ years of existing in this body, I will have the opportunity to “just be me.”
Four Years of Freedom
For the next four years, for the first time in my life, I will be an autonomous individual. I know most folks get to do this in their 20’s, but I am not most folks. I’m so excited.
This is my time to build the life I want—and I already know people will talk. No hablo inglés