Why I Charge for My Services

Yesterday, I was notified of a social media post that criticized me for charging for my services. Ironically, it came from someone I once went to bat for (behind the scenes) when her actions were criticized by fellow advocates. As I reflected back on that memory, it made her comments extra confusing….it stung.

I have learned to pause and to breathe into the lessons because, there are always lessons in uncomfortable situations. I could easily walk away and ignore the situation which is what I typically do or, I could answer her question.

“Why I charge for my services,” — it isn’t something that anyone should have to explain.

The obvious answer is simple: like anyone else, I have bills to pay. I need to keep a roof over my head, food on the table and I need health care. For many years, I’ve been the sole provider for my daughters and I’ve carried that responsibility with pride. I have rent. I have a car payment. I have all the same real-life expenses that come with being an adult, a parent and a human.

I lead a very simple life—not a life of excess or extravagance. Even if I lived a life of extravagance, that would be my business.

When I was navigating the legal process to terminate my ex-husband’s parental rights, I worked with an attorney and, of course, I paid for their time and expertise. When it came time to file the paperwork for my daughter’s name change, I hired a paralegal and never thought twice about compensating her. I pay my therapist for her support, just like I pay my mechanic when something goes wrong with my car. No one asks whether those professionals have lived the same experience—they’re paid for the service they provide.

It’s never crossed my mind to ask any of these professionals whether they’re profiting from my pain. And yet, because my work supports survivors and is rooted in my own lived experience, some believe I should apologize for making a living?

Let me be the first to say: That’s just silly.

There’s a quote that resonates deeply with me:

“Never explain yourself. Your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe it.”

And yet, here I am, explaining myself. Not because I owe anyone an explanation, and not because I need to defend my work or my worth. I’m sharing this because I care about the community I’ve poured my heart into for the past 15 years. I care about the trust that’s been built—and I care when that trust is questioned.

I don’t know what you do as a career, but let me be the first to emphatically state, “You deserve to be paid for your time and efforts.”

The accusation I read stated that I’m “taking advantage of survivors.” That accusation disregards everything I’ve helped to build. It hurts because I know what I’ve accomplished and what I’ve helped others accomplish. I have no doubts about my abilities as an entrepreneur. I could have built a business rooted in joy instead of one immersed in trauma.

When I first started speaking out in 2011, it wasn’t from a place of strategy or ambition—it was out of sheer desperation. No one was talking about these things. Everyone was suffering in silence. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I couldn’t be the only one, and I needed to say something out loud in hopes it might reach someone else who felt as alone as I did.

I had reached a juncture where I had to decide: I could either focus 100% on my career in PR and marketing, or I could take a leap of faith. I couldn’t continue to juggle both, and OMB had grown to the point that it required my full attention. I chose the path of uncertainty, purpose, and service, because I believed the work mattered.

Every single month, I receive emails from parents who tell me their children are safe today because my documentation system allowed them to present their case in a better light, or that years ago, they did a coaching call with me and it changed the course of their case—or they simply say that they feel less alone because of our community. I don’t take that lightly. I never have. And I never will.

My Personal Journey

I was born to teen parents. My earliest years were unstable and shaped by addiction, poverty, and chaos. At nine years old, after my dad’s second divorce, I experienced homelessness. My dad and I lived in the back of a truck, in tents, and at several junctures, I was sent to stay with friends or family members.

At the age of 14, I started my first business making chocolate lollipops. It gave me purpose and independence in a world that often felt like it was falling apart.

I’ve been financially on my own since I was 17. No support. No safety net. I put myself through community college while growing a successful pet-sitting business that eventually employed 13 people across two counties. I built it from scratch, one flyer, one relationship at a time.

Fast forward to 2009 when my marriage ended. I lost everything—my home, my car, and the business I loved—because of my ex-husband’s financial infidelity and deceit. I filed bankruptcy. I had less than $200 to my name. My credit was destroyed. I was a full-time single mom with two little girls depending on me for everything.

One Mom’s Battle Was Never a Business Plan (!)

I didn’t set out to build a business—I was simply trying to survive and support others along the way. My journey unfolded one day at a time, organically.

It’s why I often refer to myself as the “accidental” author and advocate.

I didn’t start One Mom’s Battle as a business. I started it as a blog, a lifeline for myself and, eventually, for others. At the time, I was working three separate contract jobs: social media for a wedding organization, account management for a marketing company, and PR for a tourism firm. I was also writing for the Huffington Post and other outlets, doing whatever I could to keep us afloat. I was feeding my children from a food pantry and praying that my check engine light would miraculously go off on its own—because I couldn’t afford a car repair bill. I was in survival mode. 

And in the middle of all that, I was helping other moms navigate the family court system for free. Because I cared, and because I was them. And ironically, it was those very moms who encouraged me to begin charging for my time, energy and experience.

Even if I had set out to create a business, there is nothing wrong with that. When I reflect back on the darkest times of my own journey, I would have welcomed someone to serve as a resource when I was fighting to protect my children - if I couldn't afford to hire them, I would have consumed every ounce of free content that was available to me.

In 2012, I self-published my first book. Like everything else in my journey, I figured it out on my own—without funding or a publishing deal. Self-publishing is not financially lucrative, but it was never about the money. It was about telling the truth and letting others know they weren’t alone.

In 2013, I took a huge leap of faith and left the security of my jobs to focus fully on advocacy and coaching. There was no business plan, no safety net—just the path unfolding in front of me, one day at a time. To describe this as a leap of faith is an understatement.

I’ve created something I believe in—something that has supported thousands of others walking through the fire I once lived in. I have given my heart, my time, and often my health to this work. I have shown up day in and day out, even when I had nothing left to give.

I know very few people who can say that 95% of their workday is spent working for free—I can personally say this because it is my truth. So yes, I charge for my services because I have to… because I deserve to make a living. Because sustainable advocacy matters. And because helping others should not come at the cost of my own survival.

If money were my goal, I could have monetized this platform in a very big way—but that’s not what it’s ever been about for me.

A Reminder to Trust Myself

There’s another quote I’ve held close recently, from Glennon Doyle:

“Don’t explain the thing. Just do the thing and then they’ll be able to see the thing, making explaining anything unnecessary. Whenever I find myself justifying or explaining myself, that’s my signal that I’m abandoning myself. So I stop, take a deep breath, remember that I’m a grown-up, and I do the next right thing, one thing at a time, without asking permission before or justifying after. It’s not their job to trust your vision. It is your job to trust your vision. Let them believe it when they see it.”

When I am under attack, like I was this week, I sometimes think about what life would look like if I had stayed working in public relations. I wonder how different my health would be, how much more energy I’d have left to give my family at the end of each day.

And to be honest, I joke often about selling everything, moving to the middle of nowhere, getting a bunch of goats, and making goat soap. I even keep a bar of goat soap on my desk as a reminder that there is an easier path. Whether it’s PR or goat soap, there are less painful ways to make a living. If your company is hiring, let me know—because depending on the day… I might apply.

Most would assume that when I contemplate walking away from this work, it’s because of the opposition. After all, just last week, I read the comments posted by a member of a fathers' rights group telling dads that “a hitman is cheaper than an attorney.” Another social media post in a group of 70,000 fathers identified me as "public enemy number one" and said that I "need to be addressed."

This is the kind of mentality we’re up against. Even if I were over here living a life of luxury, the money wouldn’t be worth what I face every day. My husband had to get a concealed carry permit because our peace has been threatened significantly. We’ve had to install security cameras and an alarm system at our home. My personal safety concerns extend to my daughters, and it’s something we live with quietly but constantly.

What takes the biggest toll on me is not the threats—it’s the fractures inside this very movement. The infighting. The egos. The friendly fire. The personal attacks from people who should be linking arms. Navigating the world of advocacy has, at times, been more painful than facing the opposition itself. That’s the part that wears me down—not because I’m thin-skinned, but because it’s a betrayal of what this work is supposed to stand for.

Even so, I stay.

When I have doubts, I remember the moms who message me at 2 a.m. in crisis. I remember the children whose voices are silenced in courtrooms. I remember the version of myself who had no one to turn to. I remember the mom who sat on my couch at 10 p.m., a complete stranger just five minutes earlier, afraid for her life and seeking reprieve. I opened my door. And I keep going.

Since 2011, I’ve devoted my life to this advocacy, often seven days a week. What that looks like changes constantly. Sometimes it means supporting a mother who has expressed suicidal ideation. Sometimes it means answering a call from a desperate teenager who believes, heartbreakingly, that I might be the one who can protect him. Sometimes it’s testifying before a Senate committee. Sometimes it’s quietly working behind the scenes to support protective legislation or mobilizing our community to stop a dangerous bill from becoming law.

To those who truly see me, thank you. Your support and trust are often what keep me going.

To those who misunderstand or judge, I offer this: if a therapist is a survivor, should they not charge for their services? If an attorney is a survivor, should they give their work away for free? The person who cuts my hair is a survivor, should she cut my hair for free?

We don’t ask that of anyone else. We shouldn’t expect it from survivors who build careers from their lived experience. Some of the survivors who are out there channeling their pain into purpose are the most remarkable humans I've ever known. They inspire me, and they are the ones making real change.

No one should feel ashamed for charging for their services, regardless of the topic. There is honor in turning hardship into purpose, and there is strength in making that work sustainable. We do not need to choose between helping others and taking care of ourselves. We can do both, with integrity, compassion and heart.

 
The Work Ahead
 
Over the past 15 years, we’ve built something powerful through One Mom’s Battle. Together, we’ve raised awareness, educated thousands of families, and most importantly, we’ve helped pass legislation that centers children and prioritizes their safety. We’ve created ripples that have turned into waves—but we’re not done.

We still have a long way to go. The opposition is well-funded, well-connected, and extremely coordinated. If we want to protect the progress we’ve made and continue pushing forward, we have to be just as focused, strategic, and united.

My daughters are safe. I’m not in this fight for personal reasons anymore—I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve protected my children. I no longer have skin in the game.

But I can’t look away. I’ve seen too much. I am horrified by what continues to happen to children in the family court system. While this battle now belongs to those who are still personally in it, I remain here because I believe in shining a light where others would rather look away.
 
If you’ve ever wondered how to get involved beyond your own case, this is your moment. I recently sat down with two powerful advocates to talk about how to engage in the legislative process and use your voice to demand change. Whether you're brand-new to advocacy or ready to take the next step, I invite you to click here to watch, learn, and join us. Also, be sure to check our advocacy hub for calls to action. 

We’ve proven what’s possible when survivors come together with purpose. The path forward won’t be easy, but it’s one we must continue walking—side by side, clear in our mission and unwavering in our commitment to protect children. Need to unite and link arms, and communicate if something needs clarification. 
 
And finally, let me be clear: this will be the last time I address my motives or why I charge for my services. I’ve said what I needed to say (whether I needed to say it or not). My energy is better spent continuing the work that matters...building, educating and fighting for reform.

That’s where I’ll be.

I hope you’ll be there too.

With hope and solidarity,

Tina Swithin