“Mom, I wrote something for you,” I said, my hands shaking as I held the paper. I hadn’t written her a poem since I was twelve. Now at 25, here I was, about to read words that took me days to write but decades to feel.
The Last Time I Wrote for Her
The last poem I wrote for my mom was scribbled in crayon on a Mother’s Day card. You know the kind — where ‘love’ is spelled with a backward ‘e’ and every other line rhymes with ‘day.’ She still has it, tucked away in her bedside drawer, wrinkled but preserved like some precious artifact.
But this time was different.
What Triggered It
It wasn’t her birthday. It wasn’t Mother’s Day. It was just a random Tuesday when I saw her folding laundry — my laundry, actually. At 27, I’d moved back home temporarily during the pandemic. There she was, folding my clothes with the same care she did when I was five, sorting my socks with that little smile on her face.
Something cracked inside me.
The Words Just Poured Out
I grabbed my laptop and started typing. No filters, no fancy words, just raw feelings spilling onto the screen:
To the Woman Who Never Stopped Giving
Your hands tell stories I’m just learning to read, Each wrinkle a chapter of putting us first, Each callus a tale of another night’s worth Of working past midnight to give what we need.
I’ve seen you wear strength like a second skin, Hiding your tears behind bathroom doors, Then emerging with smiles to do something more, Making sure our worlds wouldn’t cave in.
You taught me power lives in gentle things — In packed lunches and late-night medicine, In quiet prayers and forehead kisses when You thought I was sleeping on fever-rough wings.
The way you love fills oceans with ease, Bottomless, boundless, brave and true, Everything I hope to grow into, Everything I’m still learning to be.
Mom, I’m sorry it took me so long to say That I see you now, really see you at last, Not just as mom, but as woman unmasked, Warrior, dreamer, my light through the gray.
My hands were trembling when I printed it out. Mom was in the kitchen (where else?), humming while doing the dishes. I called her to the living room, and she wiped her hands on her apron, looking concerned.
“Everything okay, beta?” she asked.
I nodded, unfolding the paper. “I wrote something for you.”
What Happened Next
I started reading. My voice cracked at “hiding your tears.” Mom sat completely still, her hands clasped in her lap. By the time I reached “late-night medicine,” she was crying silently. When I got to “really see you at last,” I was crying too.
The paper dropped from my hands.
We just held each other.
Later that night, I found the poem carefully placed in her bedside drawer, right next to my crayon masterpiece from fifteen years ago. But something had changed. The air between us felt different — lighter, deeper, more real.
Why This Matters
We spend so much time:
- Texting friends
- Updating social media
- Sharing memes
- Posting stories
But when was the last time we really told our moms how we see them? Not just as mothers, but as the incredible women they are?
That evening, Mom called her own mother. My grandmother cried too. Something about vulnerability creates this beautiful chain reaction of open hearts.
A Challenge for You
You don’t need to be a poet. You don’t need fancy words. Just write what you see:
- The way she arranges your favorite snacks in the pantry
- How she still calls to check if you’ve eaten
- The strength in her tired smile
- The dreams she put on hold
- The silent sacrifices you’re just beginning to understand
What I Learned
Sometimes the most viral thing isn’t what spreads across the internet, but what spreads across generations of healing, understanding, and love.
Your mom doesn’t need a perfect poem. She just needs to know you see her — really see her.
P.S. Mom, if you’re reading this (because you subscribed to my Medium after I showed you how), I meant every word. And yes, I’ll be home for dinner.
To every child who’s grown enough to see their mother as a person: it’s never too late to tell her. And to every mother reading this: you are seen, you are appreciated, you are loved — even when we forget to say it.