Most people, almost everyone knows of a teen mom. Teen pregnancy

“Most people, almost everyone knows of a teen mom. Teen pregnancy rates are growing, and we need to bring awareness to that.” — Madisen Beaty

In the words of Madisen Beaty, there echoes both sorrow and summons — a cry to awaken hearts that have grown too accustomed to quiet suffering. Her declaration is not merely an observation of numbers, but a lamentation for forgotten youth, and a call to the conscience of society. When she speaks of how “most people know of a teen mom,” she reminds us that this is not a distant tragedy—it is among us. It lives next door, it studies in our classrooms, it walks the same streets, carrying both a child and a burden of silence. Her words urge us to see what we have chosen to overlook: the tender, fragile stories hidden beneath the statistics.

In the ancient days, the elders would gather the young beneath the olive trees and speak of destiny, of choice, and of consequence. They taught that every life, no matter how small or sudden, bears the breath of purpose. So too does Beaty’s message compel us to recognize that teen pregnancy is not a curse upon the young, but a signal to the village — to guide, to nurture, to protect. The ancients would say, “The harvest is the reflection of how we tended the field.” Thus, when we see rising rates of teen motherhood, it is not the youth alone who falter, but the entire garden of society that has neglected its watch.

There is a story from the early 20th century — of Sarah Breedlove, known later as Madam C.J. Walker, born in poverty to enslaved parents. She became a mother at fourteen, widowed soon after, and burdened with despair. Yet through struggle, she rose to become one of the first self-made women millionaires in America, her strength forged in hardship. Her story mirrors Beaty’s truth: teen mothers are not statistics—they are seeds of resilience, capable of blooming even in harsh soil. But their growth requires sun and water: compassion, education, opportunity, and understanding.

When Beaty speaks of “awareness,” she means not pity, but illumination. To bring awareness is to cast light upon the hidden corners of judgment, to replace mockery with mentorship, and to speak openly of what others whisper about. In a time where social media spreads illusions of perfection, her words cut through the haze: real awareness means honesty. It means teaching young souls not only about the beauty of love but also the weight of responsibility. It means guiding, not shaming; informing, not ignoring.

There is power in her tone — a youthful voice carrying the gravity of a prophet. “Teen pregnancy rates are growing,” she warns, not as a statistician but as one who sees the human story within the trend. Like the oracle of Delphi who once spoke in riddles to awaken kings, Beaty’s message awakens a generation anesthetized by indifference. She is saying, “Look around you. This is our doing. This is our chance to heal.” For if we do not listen, we condemn another circle of young lives to walk the same hard road, alone and unseen.

Let us remember, then, that awareness is not enough without action. The ancients believed wisdom without deeds is like a lamp without oil. To honor this quote is to become part of the change it demands. Speak gently to those who stumble. Offer guidance before the fall. Create spaces where young hearts can learn truth without fear, and where mistakes are met not with exile but with support. Build schools that teach not only equations and grammar, but the sacred wisdom of life’s choices.

In the end, the lesson that Beaty’s words leave us is both simple and eternal: the fate of the young belongs to all of us. To turn our eyes away is to forsake our own future. As the elders once said, “The youth are the mirrors of the tomorrow we deserve.” Therefore, let us bring awareness, not merely with our voices but with our hands, our hearts, and our laws. Let us protect the young mothers, uplift the unborn, and tend to the soil of our culture with care and truth — so that no child, neither mother nor infant, shall grow without light.