Not every hero wears a cape.
Some wear aprons stained with cooking oil,
headscarves tied in a hurry,
and tired eyes that still somehow smile.
A mother is the kind of person
who can be breaking inside
but still ask you if you’ve eaten.
She is the alarm clock before sunrise,
the last light still awake at midnight,
the unpaid therapist,
the silent warrior,
the first teacher most of us ever knew.
Mothers carry worlds on their backs
and call it “normal.”
They know what it means
to go without
so their children can have enough.
You see,
a mother can turn one loaf of bread
into a family meal,
can turn pain into prayer,
and tears into strength.
And sometimes we forget them.
We grow up,
get busy,
reply late,
come home less,
and assume they will always be there
like electricity,
constant.
But one day you realize
the hands that carried you
have grown weaker.
The voice that shouted your name from the gate
has become softer.
The woman who once ran everywhere for you
now walks slowly.
And suddenly time becomes loud.
A mother’s love is strange like that.
It doesn’t retire.
It doesn’t resign.
Even after disrespect, disappointment, and heartbreak,
she still prays for you
like heaven depends on it.
Some mothers are biological.
Some stepped in when others stepped out.
Some raised children they did not give birth to.
Some are single mothers fighting battles
without applause.
Some are grieving silently.
Some are trying their best
with very little.
And honestly,
many of us are alive today
because a woman somewhere refused to give up on us.
So if your mother is still alive,
call her.
Sit with her.
Listen to her stories
even if you’ve heard them a hundred times.
And if she’s gone,
honor her by becoming the kind of human
she prayed you would be.
Because mothers…
they are proof
that love can look exhausted
and still keep going.
Walking Shadow Poetry – Grow from what’s meant to kill you.
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