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What My Mother Taught Me Without Words
A Poetic Reflection on Intergenerational Wisdom
“Not all lessons come from lips — some bloom quietly in the spaces between glances and gestures.”
My mother never sat me down to explain the rules of being a woman. She didn’t hand me a list titled “How to Be Brave” or “How to Love Yourself Even When the World Doesn’t.” She simply lived. And in the quiet spaces of her existence, I learned everything I needed to carry forward.
This is not a story of grand declarations. This is a story of small revolutions — the kind passed silently from mother to daughter, held in the curl of a smile or the steadying grip of a hand.
The Lesson of Hands
My mother’s hands were never idle.
They chopped, swept, stitched, and prayed. They wiped tears, balanced bowls, and buttoned up courage every morning before the world saw her. Those hands taught me that strength doesn’t need applause. That care is its own kind of protest. That we survive not just by holding on, but by holding others.
In her hands, I learned that love doesn’t always look like affection. Sometimes, it looks like a sacrifice.
