The Woman Who Loved Me First

Before I ever opened my eyes to the world, before I learned to speak, walk, or even cry—there was her. My mother. The woman who loved me first.

I do not remember the first time she held me. I can only imagine the way her tired eyes softened when she saw me for the first time, how her trembling hands wrapped around my tiny body with a mix of fear and wonder. I was just a heartbeat she had carried for nine long months. But to her, I was already everything.

There’s something sacred about a mother’s love. It doesn’t ask for recognition, it doesn’t demand reward. It gives, and gives, and gives—until you’re grown and gone and even then, it lingers in every part of your being.

My earliest memories are not filled with grand events. They are filled with her presence. The smell of chai early in the morning, the hum of her favorite lullaby while she folded clothes, the gentle pat on my back when I cried at night. I remember hiding behind her when guests came, peeking out from behind her legs, knowing I was safe in her shadow.

She was my world. And for a long time, I didn’t realize she had a world beyond me.

As I grew older, I began to see the sacrifices she made so seamlessly. She never bought herself new clothes during Eid but made sure mine were perfect. She skipped her meals some days, claiming she wasn’t hungry, just so I could have a second serving. She stayed up with me through fevers and exams and heartbreaks—always there, always steady.

When I failed my first big exam, I was crushed. I felt worthless, disappointed in myself. But she looked at me, placed her hand on my head, and said, “You are not a result. You are a journey.” That was the first time I realized how much she saw in me, even when I couldn’t see it in myself.

My mother was not a woman of many words. She didn't say "I love you" often, but she said it in the way she packed my lunch with care, in the way she ironed my clothes before school, in the way she stayed awake until I returned home safely. Her love was quiet, but it echoed louder than anything else in my life.

When I moved abroad for my studies, I saw her cry for the first time—not at a funeral, not in pain, but when I hugged her goodbye at the airport. She smiled through her tears, telling me to go live my dreams. And yet, her eyes told a different story. They said, “Come back safe. Come back soon. Don’t forget me.”

Distance taught me the depth of her love. She called me every day, even if only to hear my voice. She sent care packages with snacks I missed, handwritten notes tucked inside that always ended with “proud of you.” In a strange, foreign place, her voice became my home.

As I became older, I realized something that broke me a little: my mother had a life before me. Dreams. Ambitions. Talents. She was once a young girl who loved poetry, who wanted to be a teacher, who had stars in her eyes. But somewhere along the way, she tucked those dreams away in drawers and closets to raise me, to give me a chance to chase mine.

And yet, she never once complained.

One day, I asked her, “Ammi, didn’t you ever wish to do something else?” She smiled, that same peaceful smile she always wore, and said, “I did what I was meant to do. Loving you was the biggest thing I ever did right.”

That sentence still echoes in my heart.

Now, as I watch her grow older—silver strands in her hair, slower steps, softer voice—I’m hit with a wave of gratitude so deep, it hurts. How do you thank someone who gave you everything and asked for nothing?

You can’t.

But you can remember.

You can write her stories. You can hold her hand a little longer. You can learn her favorite song and sing it to her on a quiet evening. You can make her tea the way she made it for you when you were sick. You can carry her in your heart the way she carried you in her arms.

Because love like hers never dies. It lives in the way you treat others. In the patience you show. In the kindness you give. All of that—was taught to me by the woman who loved me first.

This story isn’t dramatic. It has no twist endings. No climactic moments. It’s quiet. Like her. But it’s full. Full of little sacrifices, warm hugs, long nights, and unshakable faith.

So this is for her.

For the woman who stayed up all night when I was burning with fever.

For the woman who prayed silently for me at every step.

For the woman who celebrated my smallest achievements like they were gold medals.

For the woman who loved me when I was unlovable, forgave me when I didn’t deserve it, and stood by me when the world walked away.

For the woman who loved me first—and never stopped.