Dear Mom, I am honestly really sorry

Dear Mom,

I used to think strength
looked like loud voices,
big titles,
people with power.

But then I watched you.

I watched you wake up tired
and still continue.
I watched you carry pain in silence
so the house could still feel warm.
I watched you turn “we don’t have enough”
into “we will be okay.”

And somehow…
we always were.

Dear Mom,
you mastered the art
of suffering quietly.

You would give everyone the bigger piece of chicken
then claim you were not hungry.
You would wear old clothes longer
so we could look decent outside.
You hid your tears in kitchens,
bathrooms,
late-night prayers
we were never supposed to hear.

And maybe that’s why
children grow up late.

Because it takes years
to finally understand
that the woman we called “Mom”
was also just a human being
trying her best.

Trying to survive.
Trying not to break.
Trying to raise children
while carrying burdens
nobody helped her carry.

Dear Mom,
I saw the way life fought you.

The disappointments.
The sacrifices.
The moments you smiled in public
but looked exhausted in private.

And still—
you kept showing up.

That is the kind of love
this world does not celebrate enough.

People clap for celebrities,
for politicians,
for influencers online.

But mothers?
Mothers save lives quietly.

You saved mine.

Through your prayers.
Through your warnings.
Through your stubborn belief
that I could become more
even when I doubted myself.

And if I ever become someone great,
please understand this:

there is no version of my success
that does not have your fingerprints on it.

Dear Mom,
I know I do not say thank you enough.

For the sleepless nights.
For the sacrifices I noticed late.
For the battles you hid from us.
For loving me
even in seasons
when I was difficult to love.

If heaven ever keeps records of heroes,
I believe your name is written boldly.

Because before the world knew me,
you did.

Before anybody believed in me,
you did.

Before I could stand on my own,
you carried me.

And honestly…
part of me will always remain
that child
who finds peace
hearing your voice say,

“Have you eaten?”