Hi, I’m Samantha, a 38 year old single mom in Louisville, KY, raising my 5- and 7-year-old—both brand-new to school this year, stepping into classrooms with backpacks I fought to keep filled. This is the story of how my life changed course one day and has been running full steam ahead from one crisis to the next and hasn't stopped for 7 years now. I'm living with genuine "burnout" and am completely overwhelmed and overstressed and feel like a complete failure. What started as a return to family became a brutal, unbroken chain of loss. I’ve been knocked down again and again, but I’m still standing—for my kids. It began years ago when I ended five years of no-contact with my parents and moved back to help raise my teenage nieces while my aging mom and dad struggled. Dad was glued to the couch, no longer working. Mom was drowning. I took over driving, repairs, bills. Within weeks: pregnant. Then—dad’s lung cancer back, terminal, six months. I became his caregiver (he refused Mom). He lasted nearly six more months and died at home. Less than two months later: Mom flipped her truck. Back broken in multiple places. Six months bedridden, in agony, not able to walk, eat or use bathroom without my help. Unable to process anything,or remember much and I kept her protected from the reality of our situation. Small talk only. Newborn in arms, teenager to guide, dad’s estate, mom’s insurance chaos—I became power of attorney for both. That’s when I uncovered the betrayal: cancer in his brain had warped him. He’d hidden foreclosure, drained every account, let life insurance lapse, buried us in debt—believing Mom had never contributed. She had. Always. I saw it. We never went hungry. She worked. She saved. He destroyed it all in silence. His goal was for her to be broke and homeless immediately after his death. I couldn't let that happen. Despite the belief that the house was worthless sold the house for $200k—, paying off the balance with a little money left over. Although that required me to literally hack his accounts, sort his locked office full of neglected responsibilities, and figured out how to make it work. I prepped the house myself. Cashed in my own life insurance to survive. Bought a 2-year-old double-wide and paid half of it upfront and mortgaged the rest. The final blow: sign papers Friday, be completely out by Sunday—five bedrooms, two double garages, 20 years of memories—while six months pregnant, with a toddler, an immobile mom. Two days. Two dump-truck junk runs. We made it. COVID hit post-cesarean. I took third-shift Walmart anyway, full-time 5 nights a week.. Kids in Head Start. Mom helped when she could. For over a year, we had rhythm—until we all got COVID, she needed emergency gallbladder surgery, and the collapse accelerated. 2023: the avalanche. Job gone. Behind on bills. Working all night and caregiving all day, sleeping 1 or 2 hours a day at most. Burnout is a real thing. I did everything right: applied for every program, got rental eviction relief funds approved—thought that was our lifeline. (Didn’t own the land, so no mortgage help, but renter aid was supposed to cover back rent.) Then the mobile-home loophole hit. Eviction moves at warp speed. Rent late → two months behind → eviction filed → court in under a month. Judge: landlord can refuse approved COVID funds—I had no idea they could. Court can’t force it. Eviction upheld. Sheriff papers in seven days. I begged. Landlord agreed: pay by week’s end, stay. I scrambled, reached out on time—denied. Sheriff: exactly one week to vacate or face arrest. I ripped my kids from their home, stashed them in a hotel with my mom while I packed alone. They had no clue what was happening or why. Everything we owned went into storage. I couldn’t keep up. The unit was auctioned off. We lost it all. Clothes on our backs. A few bags in the car. That’s it. Now, at least twice a week, they ask when we’re going back—they miss their house. It kills me every time. We were hours from living in the car. The last day of the hotel I could afford—on the final morning—family offered their spare bedroom. One room. Four of us. No space, no privacy, no quiet. The kids sleep on air mattresses. I sleep on the floor. My mom on a cot. It’s so hard, but it’s a roof. For now. Mom’s health has completely collapsed. Severe rheumatoid osteoarthritis — every joint inflamed, barely mobile. COPD + asthma — oxygen levels drop, inhalers barely help. Urinary incontinence — out of control, unmanaged. Early dementia signs — confusion, memory gaps, refusal to acknowledge reality. She sleeps 18–20 hours a day, abandons all hygiene, won’t see specialists, won’t follow any doctor’s orders. I’m drowning in soiled clothes, bedding, towels—I can’t keep washing. I won’t. Incontinence supplies aren’t covered by Medicare. I’m one person. I can’t keep up with two little kids, school, my own disability, and this—it’s like raising three children with the same mental maturity level. I’m breaking. 2024: disability flares. Medical debt. Car died. 2025: volunteer gig stalled (court-ordered service verification failed). Housing waitlists stretch into 2026. Every crisis lands before the last one heals. I’ve sold heirlooms, begged extensions, mapped resources at 3 a.m.—all to shield my kids from the weight. I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking for a hand up. Your help means survival: Gift Cards: Kroger/ALDI for food, gas for school runs and doctor visits—$25–50 keeps us fed and moving. Rebuilding + Caregiving Basics: Target/Walmart cards for clothes, shoes (kids grow fast), bedding, washable mattress pads, adult pull-ups, incontinence pads, disposable gloves, odor neutralizers—we burn through them daily. Home Accessibility: Lowe’s/Home Depot cards for grab bars, shower seats, low shelves—my body fails more days than not. Health & Supplies: Amazon Wishlist (link below)—incontinence supplies, COPD inhaler accessories, pain relief, kid vitamins, mobility tools, school snacks, hygiene basics. Housing Leads: 2–3 bed rentals in Louisville, pet-friendly, under $1,200/mo. I’ve applied everywhere—your local tip could change everything. Resources & Hacks: KY support for disabled single moms—Medicaid waivers for incontinence supplies, in-home care aides, dementia support groups, adult protective services guidance, mobile home tenant rights groups, clothing banks, furniture giveaways, community service alternatives, budgeting for gig income. Share what’s worked. This page is quiet. Real. No spotlight. Just a mom fighting to give her kids a childhood—not just survival. Every card, link, or message is a brick in the foundation we’re rebuilding. Thank you. From the depths. DM for leads or resource trades #MomStrong #KYStrong #WeRiseFromAshes