I gave up my daughter right after birth but then brought her back—and it became my salvation.
Sometimes life challenges you when you’re least prepared—when you’re at rock bottom, emotionally, physically, and mentally. I survived cancer, loneliness, and the fear of motherhood, and came close to abandoning the most precious thing I had. But at the last moment, I changed my mind.
My name is Natalie, I’m 31, and I’m from Manchester. But everything I want to share happened far from home, in a country where I knew neither the language nor the people. It was there that I became a mother and almost left my daughter behind.
When I was 24, I was diagnosed with a condition that shakes your world—cervical cancer. It all happened so fast: surgery, recovery, fears. Doctors said I likely wouldn’t have children. I didn’t argue—I just accepted it. I decided my life would take another path, one without family or children. I focused on my career, travel, and freedom.
And so it went. I built a successful career in the finance sector, moved to Australia for a contract, and traveled around the world. I had romances with men, but without any commitments. I didn’t allow myself to fall in love or make plans. I lived a half-life, or what I thought was enough.
Then one day, I began feeling strange—fatigue, dizziness. I blamed everything on exhaustion. But the gynecologist I visited more as a formality dropped a bombshell:
— You’re pregnant. Four months along.
I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t I… infertile? How? A mistake? No. It was confirmed.
Panic. Shock. I didn’t want this baby. I had no steady partner, no plan, no desire to be a mother. I didn’t tell anyone—not my parents, friends, or colleagues. I hid everything. I wore loose clothing, gained barely any weight, and tried to ignore what was happening.
Then came the ninth month. I was fixated on going on a holiday to South America, something I had dreamt of since youth. Everything was paid for in advance, and I decided: why not? I flew to Argentina. There, amidst tropical rains and Spanish conversations, labor began.
I delivered in a small hospital near Cordoba. I named my daughter Hazel. I felt nothing—just exhaustion and fear. I even considered leaving her there, in this country where no one knew anyone.
But the poverty I saw there horrified me. I realized that if I were to leave Hazel, it should at least be back home, in England. I reached out to the embassy, and they helped me get her papers. With great difficulty and numerous flights, I made it home.
I was exhausted, broke, with a newborn in my arms. The very next day, without thinking it over, I took her to a children’s home. I explained that I couldn’t cope. The social workers didn’t judge. They just silently accepted her.
I went home, collapsed onto my bed, and… felt empty. Everything was as if it was not happening to me. Two days later, I returned to work.
But a few weeks later, I got a call from the shelter.
— There’s something wrong with your little girl. She’s not eating, not responding, just crying.
I went. I didn’t know why—perhaps to reassure myself it wasn’t my fault. But when I saw her—skinny, with tired eyes, wrapped in a stranger’s blanket—something clicked in me.
She recognized me. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She just looked at me, as if waiting. And I understood: she was mine. She needed me just as much as I needed her.
I went home and couldn’t sleep all night. In the morning, I went to work and told everything to my boss, colleagues, and friends. I didn’t want to lie anymore.
A week later, I brought Hazel home.
At first, it was tough. Sleepless nights, fear, exhaustion. But with each day, she grew stronger, and I became stronger too. We got used to each other. We became a family.
Hazel is three now. She laughs, runs around the flat, and sings songs. And I’m living again, truly. No mask, no escape. I’m a mum. And even though it’s just the two of us, we’re happy.
I don’t know if I’ll ever meet a man who will love both of us. But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that once I gathered my strength and chose love over fear. And I don’t regret it for a second.
Hazel is my salvation and my redemption.
