Two months into living alone, I woke up missing my mom. Before I even got out of bed, I picked up my phone and started typing a mother’s day poem for her. I cried and cried as the words poured out of me. I wasn’t fully aware of what I was writing—only that it came from a place deep within. Somehow, my tears shaped themselves into a poem. Almost a prayer of conviction.
After I wiped my tears, I told my best friend Ian about it. She said she wanted to read it. When she did, she told me how deeply she resonated with the theme—how it spoke to something universal among women, especially daughters remembering their mothers.
My friend and fellow writer, Jellene, echoed that sentiment. She said it captures the quiet tragedy many mothers face: how their womanhood and humanity often become secondary the moment they enter motherhood.
So this Mother’s Day, I offer this poem to all the mothers who have ever felt that way.
Image from Canva
Mother’s Day poem: A tribute to all the mommies who have ever felt they lost themselves in motherhood
The Dreamer’s Mom
I once asked her what her dream was
when she was little,
and she told me,
none.
Because society
and the unjust system
deem it necessary
to implant in their minds
that the only dream a poor girl can have
is to become a mother.
To someday be married,
serve a man,
bear him children,
and keep his house clean.
Poverty and patriarchy
rob them of their chance to dream,
and I saw her
fulfilling society’s dreams
through her body.
And I,
I couldn’t bear the burden
she long accepted as her fate,
so I stepped back, not out of hate
but out of passion and faith.
When I choose to break the cycle,
to rise up and speak,
to wage my own spiritual war,
it’s not just for me,
it’s for her.
I became a dreamer,
not just for the sake of dreaming
but as an extension of her being.
I want to make her feel
that birthing us into this world
wasn’t a failed dream
but a magic
manifested in reality.
My independence
is not just a product of something negative—
it’s a choice to resist
a system that tells a girl
she is just a womb.
There is nothing wrong with being a mother,
and I want to be one someday too,
but not in the way this society defines motherhood.
I want to conceive with love,
to give birth from pain,
without depleting my womanhood
and my humanity—
not out of stubbornness,
but out of the wisdom
that no one should have to kill themselves
just to be a slave to a man or to a son.
Standing up for myself
makes me feel like
I’m standing up for my mom.
A mother
who may not be perfect,
who may not address
the elephant in the room,
who may run to avoidance to keep the peace,
but her strength
and unwavering love
is an act of defiance.
So, I dream
for her,
for me,
and for the daughters
our family will one day give birth to in this world.
A message to the mothers who’ve ever felt like their selves came second
Image from Canva
Dear Mommies,
I know I can never fully understand what motherhood feels like until I’m in your shoes. But there’s one thing I can say with certainty: your sacrifices and your unconditional love do not go unnoticed. You are seen.
Your love is not in vain. It is a quiet but powerful force—moving through your home, your children, and everyone who witnesses it. The energy of that love holds a frequency that ripples through the world in ways you may never see. But it’s real. And it’s transformative.
Still, I hope you remember this: you matter too.
Your womanhood, your dreams, your humanity—they all deserve to coexist alongside your role as a mother and a partner. You deserve the same love and care you so selflessly give. Please don’t silence your needs. Speak them. You are allowed to ask for help, for love, for understanding.
You are not just a womb or a pair of arms that nurtures. You are a full, complex, beautiful person. You are allowed to dream—whatever those dreams may be. You are allowed to cry, to rest, to feel tired. You are allowed to hold your partner accountable. You are allowed to reclaim your joy.
And most of all, please know this: You are not hard to love.
You are not here just to witness your children’s growth while suppressing your own. You are allowed to bloom too. You are allowed to tend to your own garden—without guilt.
I may not know you personally, but I send my love quietly to the wind, hoping it reaches your heart. I honor the size of your heart and the body that carries weariness yet keeps going for the ones you love.
I love you, Mommies.
You deserve all the respect and love this world has to give.
With all the love and appreciation,
JB
