Dear Unsealers,
I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that I would one day write these words—but today, I can say with confidence and gratitude: My life is blossoming. Not because it is perfect, but because, against all odds, I have found strength, purpose, and even beauty in what once felt like an endless storm.
My name is Lova, and I am a single mother raising a neurodivergent child—one whose very existence seemed to challenge everything and everyone around him. For years, he cried and screamed to express anxiety, frustration, or insecurity, and flinched at the flutter of a fly. His intense tantrums led to rejection from neighbors, expulsion from schools, and eventually, eviction from five homes. Strangers judged us, and many misunderstood him. He carried four lifelong diagnoses—autism, ADHD, behavioral disorder, and speech delay—and each day felt like a battle for understanding and acceptance.
When I arrived in Canada in 2015, I had nothing but dreams in my suitcase and faith in my heart. I had followed the promise of love, leaving behind my life in Paris to begin a new chapter with a man I had met seven years earlier—and married two weeks after landing. In the years that followed, I went back to school, earned two degrees, gave birth to my beautiful son, and began writing.
Then, when my son was diagnosed at four, everything shifted. I became more than a mother—I became his therapist, his advocate, his safe haven, his teacher, and his life coach. I had to leave my job, as his teachers and the school board said he couldn’t make it through a full school day due to a limited attention span. His hours were reduced, and I had to be home by 1:00 p.m. to welcome him. I had just started a PhD, but I had to pause it. I lost my jobs and my income—but I refused to lose my child.
Some days were so tough that we slept in hotels. I was reported to social workers. We were judged, dismissed, and sometimes verbally abused at grocery stores or in the park. Yet, through the trials, I saw glimpses of light. I cried—sometimes myself to sleep. I prayed. I hoped. I worked. I poured all my love into him. I became a full-time mom and a full-time dreamer, and I wrote through the exhaustion, the chaos, and the heartbreak.
Without any government assistance, I built a business from the ground up. I became a writing coach, transforming my pain into purpose and guiding hundreds of women in writing and publishing their own stories—even as I continued to write mine.
To date, I’ve published seven books, and three more are on the way—including a comic series that raises awareness around autism, child abuse prevention, and cultural diversity.
But my greatest story is not in a book.
It’s in my home.
It’s in the 14-year-old boy who now walks alone to the park—confidently and joyfully. It’s in the boy who now eats vegetables, rice, meat, chicken—and even chicken bones—after years of surviving on fries and fruit. It’s in the boy who now speaks in full sentences and teaches me new words in English. It’s in the boy who spent years on medication—and is now completely off it. It’s in the boy who was once considered “too much” for school—who now attends full days and brings home achievement certificates with pride.
In less than a year and a half, he has earned nine academic awards. His teachers adore him. His pediatrician has declared three of his four diagnoses “no longer relevant.”
And me? I am still standing. Still writing. Still thriving.
I am not just surviving. I am blossoming—because he blossomed first.
They said he would never be calm. He is.
They said he would never be independent. He is becoming.
They even said I might have to put him in a home by 13 because of his disturbing tantrums. At 13—exactly—he was medication-free.
They said I couldn’t raise him alone, but here we are.
They said I might never work again—and here I am, coaching women to own their stories and find purpose in them.
He is my miracle. My masterpiece.
People tend to call me super mom; however, the truth is, he’s the real superhero.
The world tried to label him. To limit him. To silence him. But I chose to believe in him. And slowly, the world is beginning to see what I saw all along.
I picked up my pen to encourage everyone out there who is going through some kind of ordeal.
To every mother walking through storms: hold on.
To every dreamer in the dark: don’t stop.
To every soul tired of fighting: don’t give up.
Your blossoming is coming.
I know—because mine is here.