From the dark to the dawn

  My son said a few days ago, “Mom, if you think about it, everything is a paradox.” The more I sit with that thought, the more examples I find in everyday life. Some are simple. Some are uncomfortable. And some refuse to leave my mind. Today, this one struck me. If a man is not brave enough to accept his woman publicly, should she really be with him? But then again, what about the man who accepts her publicly, through a proposal or marriage, yet treats her like trash behind closed doors? Should she stay with him either? One strips her of recognition. The other strips her of dignity. And suddenly, what looked like a simple question no longer has a simple answer. We are often told that love should be shown. Yet love that is displayed without respect can become a performance. We are also told that love is private. Yet love that remains hidden can leave a person feeling unseen. So where is the honor? Should love be hidden or shown? What is performance, and what is an act of love? When...

Being a housewife is not suffering...  It only becomes suffering when you start believing the world’s limited definition of value. You can do much more. But first — you need to see your own worth. That’s it. Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just clearly. And your worth? It is not inside the kitchen. It is not outside the kitchen. It is not in the income you are earning. It is not the income you are not earning. It is not in school meetings. It is not in the doctor appointments. It is not in taking care of your family.  It is not even in raising your children  All of that — cooking, managing, earning, nurturing, scheduling — is work. And work is something you do. But you… You are not the work. These roles — mother, wife, professional, homemaker — They are identities. And identities are parts of you. They are not you. You exist beyond the apron. Beyond the salary slip. Beyond the school runs. Beyond doctor appointments. Beyond expectations. Beyond applause. If tomorrow the rou...

Mother-son love.   I have been chastised by numerous relatives and friends alike for allowing my 7.5-year-old son to sleep beside me. Yet, I deflect their criticism with a gentle smile, for they cannot fathom the waterfall of emotions within me. They fail to grasp that I simply do not care what they think because the truth is far more profound. In the depths of my heart, I feel a mixture of sadness and longing. I fondly recall the days when my little one, at just one year old, would peacefully slumber beside me, clutching my hand with tiny fingers. There were moments when he would awaken during the night, seeking solace and desiring my comforting presence. I can still sense the delicate caress of his hand tracing my face. Those times held immense significance and remain etched in my memory, yet they couldn't endure indefinitely. They gracefully slipped away, akin to a beautiful dance. These memories evoke a deep longing within me as I witness my son growing up and the relentless pa...