Let me be honest with you motherhood is the wildest ride I’ve ever been on. And I’ve taken a motorbike across rural roads with no idea where the brakes were and a bad back. But nothing, nothing, prepares you for the full-blown, soul-spinning, eye-bag-deep experience of raising a toddler.
My daughter is 3. She’s sweet. Loud. Hilarious. Terrifyingly smart. And deeply committed to watching Grey’s Anatomy like it’s her moral compass. Other kids her age are obsessed with cartoons. Mine? She walks around quoting Miranda Bailey and calls scalpels “scapuls.” She is fully invested. I’m just along for the ride. Every evening, it’s, “Mummy, doctor movie!” There’s no debate. You’d think she’s got surgery scheduled.
And as she binge-watches medical drama, I’m busy playing my own real-life role, chief of snacks, director of emotions, crisis manager, accidental hairdresser, and bedtime negotiator. Sometimes all at once. There are days I get through only because I’ve learned the sacred motherly arts of breathing deeply, and zoning out while nodding.
Then there’s love. My boyfriend lives miles away. Yes, as in across the oceans far. Yes, it’s far. Yes, I miss him constantly. Time zones are not for the weak. There are days I want to vent about work, laugh about something my daughter did, or just say “I miss you” without wondering if he’s in class or asleep. But here’s the thing, he tries. Even in the crazy, he checks in. He asks how I’m doing. And sometimes, that’s more romantic than flowers. Our relationship doesn’t always look like movie love. It looks like texting “have you eaten?” instead of long declarations, like celebrating when we both finally have time to talk, even if it’s just for ten minutes. It looks like love that’s growing in quiet, steady ways like a plant you forgot to water but somehow keeps surviving. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.
Meanwhile, back in the trenches of everyday life, there’s work. And let me tell you navigating work while parenting is like juggling flaming swords with one hand while holding a banana in the other (because your toddler wanted one and then changed their mind). You give your all. You fix things. Then someone messes up and says, “Why didn’t you catch that?” Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was making sure my child didn’t climb over the window while answering 12 emails and following up on 15 orders? The worst part? You’re not even allowed to scream. You’re supposed to be composed. But inside, you’re one broken stapler away from turning into a full-blown drama series of your own.
And then there was the braid saga. She wanted blue. BLUE. A full head of it. I looked at her like, “Are you joining a girl band I don’t know about?” But she stood her ground like she was defending her thesis. I tried reasoning, I tried distraction, I even tried ice cream. Nothing. Finally, we negotiated and landed on hot pink. HOT. PINK. It was either that or a meltdown big enough to shift the earth’s axis. So now we have braids, pink and proud. And honestly? She rocks them better than any grown woman I know.
And let’s talk about those lonely moments. The ones where you’ve worked all day, handled tantrums, made dinner (that nobody ate), and then silence. You sit on your bed, scrolling aimlessly, wondering if anyone sees just how hard you’re trying. You miss your person. You want a hug that doesn’t come through a screen. You want someone to say, “Babe, you’re doing great.” Sometimes I miss my boyfriend so much it hurts. Sometimes I just want to collapse into his chest and sleep for 12 years.
But then she comes. My daughter, in her little sleeping shorts, jumps onto the bed and says, “Mummy, I love you .” She grabs my face and kisses my cheek. And suddenly, the world softens. I remember why I do this. Because even in the chaos, there’s magic. The first time she said “thank you” without being prompted. The way she insists on carrying my backpack even though it's a little too heavy for her. The way she says, “You’re my best mummy,” like there’s a whole league of us and I came out on top.
This is motherhood. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s heart-filling and heart-breaking. You laugh, cry, laugh-while-crying, then forget what day it is. You drink cold tea, wear unmatched socks, and survive on leftover ugali. You learn that sleep is a privilege, not a right. You develop the ability to function like a boss at work, even with a unicorn sticker on your elbow.
Some days I feel like a superhero. Other days I feel like a Wi-Fi signal blinking red, on the edge of collapse.
And the truth is, I don’t always get it right. I’ve had moments where I snapped. Where I doubted myself. Where I stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m. wondering, “Am I doing enough?” But somehow, every morning, I get up. I wipe little hands. I kiss little cheeks. I push through.
This Mother’s Day, I don’t want chocolates or roses or fancy perfume. I want understanding. I want grace. I want people to see mothers not just as caregivers but as complex, powerful, tired, hopeful, funny, smart women navigating the wildest ride of their lives.
I want to tell other mums: You’re not alone.
To the mother whose toddler calls all fruits “apples” ; you’re doing fine.
To the mother trying to work while her child pours yoghurt into her laptop ; you’ll laugh about this. Eventually.
To the mother in a long-distance relationship, holding it down while missing her person; your love is valid, strong, and beautiful.
To the mother who doubts if she’s doing enough; you are.
And to the one like me, caught between needing a nap and wanting to stay up just to enjoy the silence; you deserve both rest and joy.
So here’s my Mother's Day truth: I’m tired, I’m happy, I’m winging it. And I’m proud. Because even in the madness, there’s so much beauty. Even in the noise, there’s laughter. Even in the silence, there’s love.
And at the center of it all is this incredible little girl with big eyes and big opinions and a heart that reminds me every single day why I’m lucky to be her mum.
Happy Mother’s Day to me, to you, to all of us.
We are doing amazing.
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