The Strength of a Woman

When you think of a strong woman who comes to mind?

For me, the strongest woman will always be my mother.

In this life, I don't think there will ever be anyone as sacrificing as my mother—or as tolerant. She is strong, giving, and wise. She gave up everything for us, never keeping anything for herself. Some might argue, Of course, she sacrificed—she had to. She gave birth to you; it's the bare minimum to protect your child. Which is true.

But I know mothers who were never truly “mummy”. I know people with mothers who were well-off but left them feeling abandoned. I know mothers who gladly gave their children away for their own peace and freedom. And I don’t judge or blame them—it’s a life of free will, isn’t it?

That is why I applaud my mother every day, especially now that I am older and wiser.

She had many options, many reasons to walk away, but she stayed. She stayed for us.

When I was younger, I actually hated her. She was the thorn in my flesh, the obstacle to my peace of mind. I hated her weakness, her nagging, her correction, her strikes. But as I matured, I realized I would have been worse off without them. Now, I can see that she was the pillar holding everything together, the rock that set the foundation of our home. She was the reason we had anything at all.

I now understand how selflessly she worked to make my father shine. Because left in his hands alone, our home would have been nothing but a distant memory.

Growing up, I adored my father. He was the fun one—the one who took us out for Sunday brunch, amusement parks, and lavish birthday celebrations. He let us run wild, much to my mother’s frustration. And for that, I resented her.

But as I matured, memories began to surface—the ones I had conveniently blotted out. The times when my father would retreat to his room, ignoring us when his money ran dry. How he would walk past us like we were ghosts, pretending not to hear our demands. It was my mother who picked up the pieces—who made sure our needs were met. But as children, we didn’t care about those things. Our biggest problems were getting nice things and going out with friends—problems only he solved because my mother preferred to keep us inside and buy only what was sustainable. And 9.5 times out of 10, it was never nice.

As I grew, I saw the truth: my father was weak, and my mother was strong. She relentlessly pursued the best for us, even when the odds were against her.

I remember being furious when she refused to sit at home like my father often requested. Why was she so relentless in making money?

Years later, I found out from my aunt—the sister she had confided in—that she worked because someone had to cover our private school fees, buy our expensive textbooks, and fund the carefully planned meal timetable she updated weekly. Left to our father, we would attend public school because that was what he could afford after his lavish ways.

When I learned this, I cried. That was the moment my mind shattered the foundation it had built over my childhood. Where she had been the villain in my good life.

Some might still argue: Of course, she had to do this. She had children—an investment that would take care of her in old age. Maybe. Maybe they’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that my mother was strong.

No matter how many times we kicked her aside, how often our words wounded her like bullets, no matter how much we disregarded her—she never gave up on us.

Although I admire my mother's strength, I don’t want to be as strong as she had to be. I don’t want my strength measured by how much disregard and objectification I can bear.

My mother wouldn’t want me to be as strong as her either. She went through the fire so that I could shine in silver, never having to endure what she did.

The year I turned 20, she sat me down in her bedroom.

"Mummy’s daughter," she said. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you o. I know that even if I talk from now till next year, you’ll do what you want at the end of the day. But just make sure—any man you open your legs to have his child, let him be a man that will choose you first in everything."

"You see your daddy and I now right? You see us laughing like we've been in love all our lives? But I’ll tell you this—before we got here, I sweat. I don’t want that for you. I don't want you to have to sweat for something that is your right to have, my daughter. So listen to me on this. Let this leg of yours only bear a child with a man that will always choose you. You hear me?"

In my youthful defiance, I pushed her words to the back of my mind but now, a decade later, I remember them. And I see how much she loved me—to warn me of the world, time and time again.

My mother is so strong and I love her.

I wish for her to spend the rest of her life enjoying the fruits of her labour in abundance.

For me, every day is Mother’s Day because I owe everything to her