I don’t think I would’ve ever been ready to be a mother—at least not if someone had told me the brutal truth about it. But here I am now, almost five years in, still trying my best every day to be a decent mom.

I remember spending almost my entire pregnancy doing all the “right” things. I read about breastfeeding. I sewed some of my daughter’s cloth diapers. I knitted tiny mittens and a little blanket with my growing belly in front of me. Everything looked cute and well-prepared… or so it seemed.

But my pregnancy wasn’t smooth.

I had a heavy bleeding early on that put me on complete bedrest for a month. I still remember that night—how worried my husband was, pacing and panicky calling the doctor. But I stayed calm. Or at least I tried to. I made a heart-to-heart conversation with my baby that night, just the two of us. I told her that I believed in her, that I knew she would make it.

Then, just as I was finding my rhythm again, the pandemic hit.

The world closed down, and doctor visits became the only reason I’d leave home—each one full of masks, temperature checks, and worry. No more chatting at the mercado. But somehow, deep down, I knew my baby would be strong. I kept sewing at home—this time, face masks instead of diapers. I just needed something to do with my hands. Something to keep my mind from spiraling.

Because I knew she was counting on me to stay sane. And I owed her that.

Then came the night she was born.

I was sitting alone on a cold hospital bench while my husband sorted out the paperwork. It was quiet—too quiet. And suddenly, this big wave of fear swept over me. I realized the real work was just beginning. All this time, I’d thought pregnancy was the hard part. I was a fool to believe that. I sat there and quietly asked myself, Am I really made for this?

But then… she arrived.

The doctors placed her on my chest so she could initiate breastfeeding. But instead of latching on right away, she just… looked at me. Eyes wide open. Calm. Full of love. A tiny pause, as if the whole world slowed down. That look—so helpless, so still—said more than any words ever could. She didn’t cry. She just stared at me as if to say, You made the right choice, Mama. You’re going to be okay. We both are.

That moment is tattooed on my heart. I’ll carry it forever.

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Now, almost five years have passed since the day I earned the title of “Mom.” Every day, I tell myself to do better. To be more patient. More gentle. More present. But still—some days bring mistakes, frustration, even guilt. And yet, through it all, her love has never changed.

She’s growing into a person with such a gentle heart. She’ll cry just from seeing me upset. And I realize something that I never expected: people always talk about a mother’s unconditional love. But I must be one of the lucky ones—because I feel like I receive that kind of love from her too.

On this Mother’s Day, I don’t need flowers or cards.
I just need a quiet moment to remember that look she gave me;
the one that told me I could do this.
And that somehow, I already was.