August 19, 2003, is etched into my memory as the day my world changed forever. Every detail of that day is burned into my mind, for better or worse—it was the day I became a mom. My name is Ashley. I was born in 1983 as the second child to my parents, Dan and Colleen. My dad was in the Air Force, stationed in North Dakota at the time. My mom had endured several miscarriages in the four years between my brother and me, and on a March morning after a scheduled cesarean, my dad got to tell her, “You got your girl.”
We didn’t stay in North Dakota for long. Shortly after my first birthday, my parents divorced—the first of several marriages and divorces that would shape my early life. As part of the custody arrangement, my brother, then five, went to live with my dad, and I stayed with my mom. The following years took my mom and me to Florida, where she eventually fell in love and remarried. I was too young to remember everything clearly, but what I do remember of that time wasn’t ideal; her new husband was not kind to her.
After another divorce, we moved into my grandparents’ condo, where I stayed until starting kindergarten. I spent countless hours with my grandparents while my mom worked tirelessly. Weekends were adventures, trips to their second house in Deland, Florida, and drives to the Florida Keys. Some of my happiest childhood memories are riding in the back of my grandpa’s car, listening to Debby Gibson on my Walkman, and stopping at rest areas for picnics.
Our first apartment was a modest two-bedroom, two-bathroom on the second floor. It was there I met one of my lifelong best friends. I thought I had a normal upbringing—neighborhood kids playing manhunt after school until our parents called us home, mud pies in the rain with my mom, carefree childhood days. By then, my dad and brother were living in Georgia, and we rotated visits a couple of weeks at a time.
Life kept evolving. My dad remarried again and had another son, giving me a new stepbrother and half-brother before I entered middle school. Visiting them, I saw what I had always imagined a “normal” family to look like: a house, cars, a boat, a mom and dad together. Meanwhile, my mom found love again and entered marriage number three.
Middle school brought a move to a townhome—our first real “big” house, with two stories and two master bedrooms. My friends were impressed with my walk-in closet, private balcony, and personal bathroom. Sleepovers, gymnastics, and cheerleading filled my days, while my mom juggled multiple jobs to make ends meet. Around this time, I also realized I wasn’t only attracted to boys—a revelation that wasn’t alarming in my Miami circle, surrounded by openly LGBTQ+ family and friends.
Life continued to shift. After a conflict at my dad’s, my brother moved in with us. I went from being an only child to a little sister overnight, sharing my dream room with him. We fought constantly, yet in hindsight, I would go back and do it all over again. High school brought new challenges. I felt older than my peers, craving attention from anyone older, and quickly found myself in situations my mother would have shivered over.
I attended my first club before turning 15, lied to my mom about my first serious boyfriend, and endured my first controlling relationship—he would break up with me and wait in the bushes outside my house. By sophomore year, I was skipping classes, negotiating freedoms, and ultimately left traditional high school to graduate early from an alternate school. At 17, I worked downtown Miami as a receptionist, imagining this was adulthood—but a move with my mom soon reminded me I was still just a child.
Our new apartment brought new routines. I worked serving tables at the restaurant my mom managed, and there I met him—the man who would change everything. He was older, attractive, and on work release, and despite limited opportunities to hang out, we grew closer. By my nineteenth birthday, after a gap-year-style trip to California with a friend, I returned home infatuated with him, and by summer, we were living together.
By December 2002, a little stick revealed I was pregnant. I was 19. The man I loved told me he couldn’t support me, and I would raise the child alone if I continued. My mom welcomed me back, helping me plan for the arrival of my son. Stress led to pre-term labor at one point, and after months of trying to make the relationship work, I accepted that I would do this on my own.
On August 19, 2003, I gave birth to Ryan James Foulds, named for my grandfather. Holding him for the first time, I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him. The first weeks were exhausting—I went back to work when Ryan was six weeks old, heartbroken at leaving him—but I was determined to build the life I envisioned for him.
Over time, Ryan’s father returned to our lives, and by Valentine’s Day, we were engaged. We were expecting again, and friends and family celebrated with us. But the relationship soon turned abusive. By February 22, 2005, my second son, Chase Daniel Foulds, was born, and just three weeks later, I left the relationship for good, knowing I couldn’t raise my boys in that environment. My mom opened her door once again, and we began rebuilding our lives.
A chance night out led me to Cori Anne Graham. I was instantly drawn to her, and we began our relationship. She accepted me, my sons, and my life without hesitation. Our love grew steadily and healthily, a stark contrast to past chaos. Three years into dating, we pursued having another child and, with a known donor, I became pregnant for the third time. On December 2, 2008, our daughter, Bailey Anne Foulds, was born.
Despite historical patterns of multiple marriages in both our families, our relationship thrived. Thanksgiving 2014, Cori proposed, and we were legally married in January 2015. Friends and family celebrated with us in March at our ceremony. Cori achieved her dream job as a firefighter, and we embraced a “normal” family life. Today, Ryan has joined the Marines, Chase excels in swimming, and Bailey thrives in school and sports.
Looking back, life turned out more beautiful than I ever imagined. I never got to live the life I give my children, yet I get to do it with my best friend by my side. I often wish I could hug 19-year-old me and tell her—it’s going to be okay. And who knows? Maybe one day, we’ll even get that boat.
