There is a quiet daily miracle. Not the kind that makes headlines. Not the kind that is measured in numbers, charts or statistics. The kind that lives in kitchens before sunrise, in whispered prayers at bedsides, in sacrifices that are never announced, only felt.
We call it motherhood.
And if you look closely, really closely, you begin to understand something profound.
God made mothers and then He made them stronger than anything the world would ever ask of them.
My earliest memories are of my mother. A woman who taught English literature and language, yes, but more importantly, taught life in the spaces between lessons.
Patience. Discipline. Grace.
There was a rhythm to her days, one that we as children barely noticed then. But now, looking back, I realise it was a masterpiece of quiet endurance. She gave structure to chaos. Meaning to ordinary days. And love without condition to her three children and their father.
Long before wellness became a trend, my mother understood what truly mattered. She would take us for walks around the neighbourhood. These were simple moments that we only now recognise as the foundations of health. There was no talk of step counts or fitness apps, just fresh air, conversation and movement. And in the kitchen, she led her own quiet renaissance with meals that were balanced, thoughtful and nourishing long before the world rediscovered the language of “healthy eating.” She gave us habits that would outlast her words.
I remember her correcting essays with the same care she used to correct our lives, firm but always kind. Expecting more of us than we sometimes believed we could give, and yet somehow knowing we could.
That is the first gift of a mother.
She sees the person you are becoming long before you do.
In medicine, we are trained to look for signs. Symptoms. Clues.
Motherhood teaches you something medicine cannot.
To see beyond what is visible. To feel what is not said. To know, without being told, when something is wrong.
I have seen mothers sit in front of me, concerned about a child whose tests are normal and whose examination reveals little. Still, they insist something is not right. More often than not, they are correct.
We describe this as instinct, but that word does not quite capture it. It is closer to a kind of knowing that is built over time, shaped by attention, closeness and love.
And then there is Neela.
No textbook prepares you for that transformation of motherhood. The priorities change. Time rearranges itself. And yet somehow, love expands. It is power of the most extraordinary kind.
There are moments late at night when the world is quiet, when most people are asleep, and she is awake, attending to baby Daniel with a patience that seems to come from somewhere deeper than effort. There is no audience in those moments. No acknowledgement. Just a sense of responsibility that is carried without hesitation.
What strikes me most is not what she does, but how naturally she does it. There is no calculation in her care. No sense of keeping score. It is given freely, completely and without expectation.
My sister Angelica carries the same quiet resolve I saw in my mother. In her work, she carries responsibility at the highest level. Decisions that affect lives, made with care, discipline and integrity. But beyond her role, there is a steadiness about her that feels familiar. The same sense of duty, the same refusal to take the easy path when the right one is harder.
And at the centre of it all is baby Daniel.
Too young to understand the world he has entered. Too small to know the magnitude of the love that surrounds him. But already held by it. Already shaped by it. Already protected by generations of women who have given more than they have ever asked for in return.
He will grow up hearing stories.
About his grandmother. About the woman who taught not just language, but life.
About his mother, whose love is his first experience of the world.
There is something about the women in our family.
They do not seek recognition. They do not ask for applause.
They simply show up. Again and again.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest measure of strength.
Grandmothers are a different kind of miracle.
If mothers build the foundation, grandmothers preserve the soul.
They carry memory, tradition and stories. The gentle reminders of where we came from.
There is a softness to them, but behind that softness is a lifetime of sacrifice, resilience, and battles fought quietly and won without witness.
A grandmother’s love is patient in a way only time can teach.
And in a world that moves too fast, that kind of love is a refuge.
In medicine, we speak often about outcomes. About survival rates, risk factors and disease prevention.
But there is a truth we do not measure enough.
The role of mothers in health.
They are the first guardians of it.
They remind us to eat. To rest. To take our medication. They worry when we do not. They insist when we resist.
And even when we grow older, older than we like to admit, they remain that quiet voice in the background.
Take care of yourself.
It is advice we often dismiss. Until one day we realise how much it mattered.
Motherhood is not easy. It was never meant to be. It is sacrifice without guarantee. Love without condition. Strength without recognition.
And yet it is the most powerful force most of us will ever know.
Because behind every confident adult, every healed patient, every success story, there is often a mother.
Or a grandmother.
Or a woman who chose to love, to guide, to protect.
Today is not easy for everyone.
For those who have lost their mothers, this day arrives with a quiet ache. It is felt in the empty chair, in the phone you can no longer call, in the advice you wish you could still hear. Grief softens over time, but it never truly leaves. It learns to sit beside love.
And perhaps that is the comfort. That the love given so freely does not disappear. It lingers. In the things they taught us. In the habits we carry. In the lives we continue to live because of them.
God made mothers and grandmothers.
But the world, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices no one sees, made them extraordinary.
William Makepeace Thackeray once wrote that “Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.” One day, we will look for their voice in a quiet room, and understand, far too late, that it was the sound of love guiding us all along.
Happy Mother’s Day!
