The pain of motherhood

The pain of a mother whose children have grown up is a special kind of pain.

It’s quiet. Deep. Carried inside.

It lives in whispered prayers before bed, in thoughts that won’t let her fall asleep, in a soft, unnoticed sigh as she sits at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.

This pain arrives the moment her children step into their own lives—making choices, making mistakes, falling down, and finding the strength to stand up again.

A mother wants to run after them, take their hand like she once did, shield them from hurt, from the world, from the wrong turns.

She wants to shout:

“Stop! I know how this ends. I’ve already been there.”

But she can’t.

They are no longer the little ones she could gather into her arms and hide beneath her wing. They are adults now—with their own paths, their own mistakes, and their own pain. And they must walk it themselves.

The hardest thing for a mother is learning to let her child live their own life.

To allow them to stumble—and rise.

To let them be wrong—and grow wiser.

To stay silent when everything inside her is begging to speak.

To wait.

To stay close without interfering.

To pray.

To send love silently and trust that it will reach them. And to believe that, somehow, everything will be okay.

Because even when children are grown, a true mother never leaves.

She watches over them.

She prays for them.

She loves them—every single day.

No breaks. No conditions. ❤️