Before she was a mother, she was once a girl with dreams

I used to believe that mothers were born all-knowing, but do you think mothers ever get tired of being seen as “for knowing everything?”

Born knowing how to calm a crying child at midnight. Born knowing how to turn ordinary ingredients into warm meals that tasted like home. Born knowing how to hide their pain amidst their gentle smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. To me, my mother always seemed larger than life—like a person made entirely of sacrifice, patience, and love.

Before the sleepless nights, before the tired eyes and endless sacrifices, she was once a girl who dreamed beneath the stars we look at today. She once imagined a future made only for herself—a life filled with ambitions, laughter, and freedom.

But somewhere along the way, her dreams learned to make room for ours: Hands that could’ve chased the world chose instead to hold a child through fevers, failures, and fears. The voice that once spoke of her own plans became the voice that encouraged us to keep going.

And perhaps that is the quiet beauty among mothers: they turn love into sacrifice so naturally that we let our minds slip; they once had dreams too.

Maybe mothers grow tired in the quietest ways: tired of being asked for answers while searching for their own. We call them “all-knowing” as if motherhood turned fear into certainty overnight, forgetting behind every “I know” was often just one woman guessing, hoping, and loving hard enough to make uncertainty look gentle.

Because before she was a mother, she was once a girl with dreams. And even now, beneath the responsibilities and sacrifices, that girl still deserves to be appreciated, loved, and remembered; not only as a “Mom”, but her.