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Reflections on my mother’s quiet love

Some days bring a gentle pull to the heart, the kind that makes you slow down and think about where you came from. Maybe it’s because today is Mama’s birthday, but I’ve found myself thinking about her more than usual. About the home she created for us, and the quiet strength she carried through so many seasons of her life.

When I look back on my childhood, I remember a warm and steady presence. Mama moving around our house and tending to her small sari-sari store. The familiar smell of food cooking, sometimes for us, sometimes for sale. The way she spoke about her children with quiet pride whenever someone asked how we were doing. At the time, those moments felt ordinary, just part of growing up, but now they rise in my memory as the things that shaped my sense of home.

As the years passed, life began to change her in ways we did not understand then. I was old enough to notice the early shifts. Some days she carried her usual lightness. Other days she grew quieter, more withdrawn, holding her thoughts and her worries close. These changes came in waves. She would find her way back for a while, then slowly slip into a softer, more fragile version of herself. We didn’t have the language for it, but we felt it deeply.

My siblings are younger than I am, so their memories might live in different parts of her life. That’s how families are. We each hold our own version of the same home, shaped by the moments we remember most.

Eventually, all of us began to leave. Not all at once, but slowly, as life pulled us into new directions. Back then, we didn’t have phones, so distance felt even bigger. Letters took time. Visits were rare and treasured. Now that I’m older, I often think about how long those quiet stretches must have felt for her. A mother’s waiting is its own kind of love. Quiet. Constant. Hopeful.

There is something she still does, even now, even if years pass between our visits. She pauses by our beds at night. Just long enough to take a breath and look at us sleeping, the same way she did when we were young. It is such a small gesture, but to me it says everything. Some parts of a mother’s heart never change.

And through all her seasons, one part of her stayed steady. Her tenderness for the child who needed her most. Louie, who has Down Syndrome, has always held a special place in her heart. She understands him instinctively, cares for him patiently, and loves him with a devotion that never wavered. No matter what shifted in her life, that love remained the truest expression of who she is.

As life went on and I became a mother myself, I began to understand her more. I understand what it means to love in different seasons. To give what you can, even when you are not at your strongest. To hold your children in your heart no matter how far they go or how long they stay away. To hope quietly. To worry quietly. And to love through all of it.

So today, in this quiet moment, I honor her.
For the warmth she gave me growing up.
For the ways she tried, even when life made things difficult.
For checking on me at night every time I came home.
For her devotion in all the seasons of her life.
For her strength, soft and steady, even when she carried more than she could say.

For Mama,
in the version of her I knew,
and the love she continues to give in her own gentle way.