Eleven years ago, on this very day, our family grieved all over again.
My mother passed away on May 8, 2015. While the initial rituals were completed within a few days, one final responsibility remained. Since she had been cremated, we decided to take her ashes to our ancestral graveyard, where my great-grandparents and grandparents were buried.
On June 15, 2015, we laid her ashes to rest. Along with them went her favorite sarees, her notebook, the pen she always carried, and several belongings that had been a part of her daily life.
As we buried those ashes, it felt as though we were saying goodbye to her all over again. Her ashes were the last tangible reminder we had of her, and letting go was not easy.
Six years later, in 2021, I was pregnant with my daughter.
My due date was June 7, 2021, but God had a different plan. Days passed, and there were no signs of labor. We waited and waited. By June 13, I had crossed 40 weeks, and labor was induced without much success.
On the night of June 14, my doctor decided that a C-section would be scheduled for the next morning—June 15, 2021.
The same date on which we had buried my mother's ashes six years earlier.
Today, eleven years after my mother's passing and five years into motherhood, I realize that it is not just my daughter who is growing. It is me.
I am the one who is growing, learning, failing, adapting, and trying my best at something I never imagined I would be doing.
I started motherhood at absolute zero.
I had no understanding of parenting. I didn't know babies cried so much. I didn't know they drank milk almost around the clock. I didn't know how often they pooped or peed. I had never changed a diaper before, and I had never even seen the taped disposable ones up close.
I still remember the look a NICU nurse gave me when I was trying to remove a diaper. She quickly took it from my hands and gave me a look that seemed to say, "You have no idea what you're doing."
And honestly, she was right.
During pregnancy, I was incredibly prepared. I took care of the house, went for my daily walks, managed my routine, and had very few complaints. Apart from the final week, when my body struggled under the weight of my growing baby, pregnancy was relatively smooth.
What I wasn't prepared for was motherhood.
I used to talk to my baby all the time while she was in my womb. Somewhere in my mind, I genuinely believed that once she arrived, I could simply talk to her and she would understand everything.
In fact, I even complained to my doctor that the baby wasn't listening to anything I had been telling her during pregnancy.
My doctor smiled and reassured me that babies don't work that way.
Ten days after delivery, reality hit me hard.
I struggled with breastfeeding. My daughter wasn't feeding adequately, and I didn't fully understand the signs. The formula I had purchased was pushed aside because I was repeatedly told that formula was harmful and should be avoided at all costs.
I trusted the people around me.
What I didn't realize was that my baby was hungry.
She wasn't peeing properly. She wasn't pooping properly. She barely had the energy to cry.
One day, she became almost unresponsive and had to be rushed to the hospital.
Looking back, I now realize how close we came to losing her because of my lack of knowledge and awareness. I was doing what I believed was right and trusting advice from people I loved, unaware that my baby was becoming severely dehydrated.
I never knew that my ten-day-old daughter was fighting such a serious battle.
But once again, God sent help.
My sister arranged for her friend's mother to come and guide me. To this day, I think of her as my mother in disguise.
From Day 11 to Day 15, my daughter stayed in the NICU due to severe dehydration and her unresponsive condition.
My pediatrician encouraged me to breastfeed with confidence, and for the next two years, my life revolved around my daughter and my breast pump.
For the first three months, I barely left the room. I was either feeding, pumping, cleaning, or trying to catch a few moments of sleep before doing it all over again.
These were things I had never imagined I would do.
I grew up.
I learned.
I failed.
I learned again.
I didn't know how to bathe her. I didn't know how to dress her. At ten days into motherhood, all I knew was how to pump milk and clean diapers, and I did those two things as if my life depended on them.
The guilt from those early days never completely left me.
Neither did the gratitude.
The people I trusted failed me in some ways, and that hurt deeply.
But there were also people who showed up when I needed them most. Their kindness and support arrived at exactly the right moment, and I will carry that gratitude forever.
Today, I am five years into motherhood, and I am still learning.
I am still failing.
I am still figuring things out.
People often ask me whether I like babies.
The truth is, I don't really know how to answer that.
What I do know is that after my daughter was born, I learned a kind of love I had never experienced before. I still struggle with endless questions, stubbornness, tantrums, and tears. Some days are difficult.
Motherhood is not always magical.
But it is real.
I still can't cook all of her favorite meals perfectly.
I still rely on spoons because feeding with my hands feels awkward.
I can't do a proper ponytail, and I definitely can't do a full-face makeup look for her.
There are so many things I still can't do.
Yet she never judges me.
She proudly wears my crooked hairstyles.
She happily eats the food I make.
She accepts me exactly as I am.
Over the years, she has become so much more than my daughter.
She fights for me.
She cheers me up when I'm sad.
She teaches me how to be a mother.
Every day, I learn something from her.
Do I enjoy every moment of motherhood?
Absolutely not.
There are hard days. There are tears. There is frustration. There are moments when I question myself.
But one thing never changes.
The love I have for her.
After an argument, she still comes back for a hug.
When I am upset, she tries to make me smile.
When I am angry, she apologizes even when she isn't entirely at fault.
She is my companion.
She is my friend.
And sometimes, she feels like my mother.
She constantly reminds me to dream bigger and achieve more.
At just five years old, she often seems wiser than I am.
She lets me pursue my work because she understands how much I love what I do. She doesn't demand that I sit beside her every minute of the day.
She understands far more than I ever expected a child to understand.
Even when I scold her, she calmly explains her side of the story.
She is stubborn, but perhaps she inherited that from me.
Sometimes I lose my patience and scold her unnecessarily. Yet she somehow reminds me to stay calm.
Even her anger is genuine. It arrives quickly and disappears just as fast.
She teaches me to stay kind.
She teaches me to find joy in small things.
She teaches me to keep my heart pure.
Whenever I ask myself, "Am I a good mother?" she answers without words.
She answers with her hugs.
With her trust.
With her laughter.
With the unconditional love she gives me every single day.
There have been countless days when I have yelled, shouted, lost my temper, and later felt terrible about it.
I am not proud of those moments.
But she sees beyond them.
She understands me in ways I don't always understand myself.
I still don't know whether I am doing everything a good mother should do.
I am still learning.
I am still trying.
And I have no intention of giving up.
Because life makes so much more sense now.
No matter how difficult the day has been, a five-minute conversation with her can completely change my mood.
Children bring an incredible amount of positivity into our lives.
She accepts me wholeheartedly despite all my flaws.
And it is my responsibility to protect her, guide her, and help her grow.
Whether I like it or not, there is no running away from motherhood.
And honestly, I don't want to.
Eleven years ago, on June 15, I buried the last remains of my mother.
Six years later, on the very same day, I became someone's mother.
Maybe that is life's way of reminding us that love never truly leaves us.
It simply changes form.
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