The Weight and Wonder of Motherhood

The Weight and Wonder of Motherhood

There are some truths so sacred, they live not in words—but in the eyes of the women who raised us.

I see it now, more clearly than ever, when I look at my own children. In those quiet moments—after the chaos, after the questions, after the food is cleared and the socks are mismatched—I ask myself: How did I get this far without breaking them?

And in that pause, my mind drifts to my mother.

My mother—the beacon.
A woman who gave up more than I’ll ever fully know.
Who carried burdens silently so that we could carry joy.
Who covered us like a hand over her chicks—soft, firm, unwavering.

She didn’t chase perfection. No, she pursued protection.
Protection of our peace. Of our future. Of our sense of self.
And sometimes, that came at the cost of hers.

I often reflect on a speech that stayed with me. It said:

“Never hurt your mother—not with words, nor anger, nor silence. She’s the only one who loved you before the world even knew you existed. She carried you for nine months and tore herself apart just to bring you here. Have you ever stared into her eyes and heard the silent prayers? Those lines on her face—they are scars from battles you’ll never understand.”

I have.
I have stared into her eyes.
And now I understand those lines.

Because I’m beginning to wear a few of my own.

The truth is, motherhood is not a title—it’s a terrain. A terrain you walk barefoot, bleeding sometimes, but still moving forward with the hope that your children won’t inherit the cuts, only the courage.

It is quiet prayer at midnight.
It is stretching yourself into spaces you didn’t know existed.
It is feeling depleted and choosing to love anyway.

And that love?
It’s messy.
It’s flawed.
It’s holy.

I don’t think we talk enough about the inner work of mothering. The mental checklists. The emotional load. The silent grief for who we were before they came, and the silent awe of who we’ve become because they did.

My mother carried the weight of our world.
And now, I carry theirs.

But here’s what I know now, with a reverence that only time teaches:
Motherhood isn’t about getting it right. It’s about staying rooted in love when everything else tries to pull you apart.

So to every mother reading this:
You are not unseen.
You are not unworthy.
You are not failing.

You are fighting battles they may never understand.
And you are loving your way through it all.

That, in itself, is enough.

🌺 To my mother, to myself, and to every soul walking the sacred path of motherhood—thank you for the light, the love, and the lineage of grace.

With tenderness,
Elizabeth Iember

💫 What silent battles have I fought as a mother that no one else sees—and how have they shaped the love I offer today?