To a child, love feels warm—not because it is perfect, but because the child does not yet know how complicated love can become
It feels like safety without questions, like arms that hold you before you even know how to ask. It feels constant, gentle, and unquestionable—like something that will always stay the same. As a child, I believed love was supposed to feel soft forever. I believed it would never change its shape or its tone.
When I was very young, love felt simple.
I was the only child then—my mother's entire world wrapped into one small human being. Her care was gentle, almost fragile. She held me like something that could break easily, like something precious. I remember her voice being softer back then, her touch lighter, her patience longer. I didn't need to earn her love; I already had it.
Those years felt warm.
But life never stays the same for long.
When my brother was born, everything around me changed, even though no one said it out loud. I was still the same child, but suddenly I was expected to be more. More mature. More understanding. More responsible. I became an elder sister overnight, without knowing what that truly meant.
Slowly, love stopped feeling gentle and started feeling heavy.
If something went wrong in the house, my name was the first to be called. If my brother cried, I was asked why. If something was misplaced, I was blamed. If the house felt loud or messy, I was expected to fix it. I didn't understand why affection had turned into expectation, or why care had started to sound like disappointment.
My mother scolded me often.Sometimes for things I did.Sometimes for things I didn't even understand.
At that age, I thought scolding meant hatred. I thought being corrected meant being unloved. I didn't know that adults carry their fears differently, and that sometimes they pass those fears onto their children without realizing it.
There were days when her words felt sharper than they should have been. And once, in a moment of anger and exhaustion, she said something that stayed with me for years—she said she wished I had never been born.
She didn't shout it.She didn't repeat it.But she said it once, and once was enough.
Those words didn't break me instantly. They settled quietly inside me, like dust you don't notice at first, until one day you realize you've been breathing it for years. I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know how to defend myself. I just stayed silent, wondering how love could sound so painful.
By the time I reached seventh and eighth grade, the distance between my mother and me felt wider than ever. Our relationship became rough—filled with misunderstandings, frustration, and silence that felt louder than arguments. She scolded me for little things. Sometimes she punished me harshly. And I kept asking myself the same question again and again: Why am I never enough?
Neither of us understood each other then.
She thought I was careless.I thought she was cruel.
I cried a lot in those years. At first, I cried openly—hoping someone would notice. Then I cried quietly—so no one would ask questions. And then, slowly, I stopped crying at all. Not because the pain went away, but because I learned how to survive with it.
I became used to it.Used to blame.Used to silence.Used to swallowing my feelings before they reached my mouth.
What I didn't realize at that time was that my mother was not trying to hurt me—she was trying to prepare me. She wanted me to understand responsibility. She wanted me to grow strong. She wanted me to learn how to stand on my own in a world that would not be kind to me just because I was sensitive.
But her way of teaching was harsh, and I only felt the wounds—not the reason behind them.
Years passed. Slowly, almost quietly, things began to change.
She started trusting me more.She began to believe in my decisions.She allowed me space instead of control.
And I began to see her differently too.
I noticed the tiredness behind her anger.The fear behind her strictness.The love hidden beneath her sharp words.
I understood something important—I was looking for love in softness, while she was showing it through protection and discipline. I wanted hugs and reassurance; she wanted me to become capable, strong, and independent.
She never hated me.Not even once.
She loved me deeply, but she loved me in a language I was too young to understand.
Today, when I look at my mother, I don't see the woman who scolded me anymore. I see a woman who sacrificed parts of herself to raise us. A woman who carried fear for my future in her heart every single day. A woman who acted tough because she didn't want the world to break me.
She is soft.She is precious.She is emotional in ways she never shows.
She is like a coconut—hard on the outside, gentle inside.
As a teenager, it is difficult to understand a parent's concern. It feels like pressure. It feels like control. It feels unfair. But sometimes love does not arrive gently—it arrives disguised as fear of losing you.
And now, I finally understand this:
She loved me even when her words failed her.She loved me even when I doubted my worth.She loved me even when I couldn't see it.
And the main thing—the most important thing of all—is this:she never wanted to take away my smile. She only wanted to protect it, even when she didn't know how.
At one point, something inside me finally shifted.I realized that she had already changed herself so much just to understand me. She had softened, adjusted, learned, and grown—quietly, without ever announcing it. And then a question slowly formed in my heart: if she can change for me, why can't I change a little to understand her too?
That was the moment I truly began to understand everything.
I started seeing her words differently. I realized that whatever she had said to me in the past were not words that came from hatred—they were hard words born out of anger, fear, and exhaustion. They did not come from her heart; they came from moments when she was overwhelmed. And that truth changed everything for me.
Some words hurt deeply, yes.But some pain is not meant to break us—it is meant to teach us.
My mother taught me lessons that I will carry for the rest of my life. She taught me to never give up, even when I feel weak. She taught me strength without ever calling it strength. She taught me responsibility, patience, and endurance, even when I didn't realize I was learning. There are so many lessons, so many unspoken quotes, hidden inside the way she raised me.
In many ways, I am who I am because of her.
Sometimes I think about it and feel grateful—grateful that the world gave me her. Grateful that I was shaped by her love, even when I didn't recognize it. Grateful that through her, I learned lessons that later became parts of my own story, parts of my own mystery.
Today, I talk to her differently.
I talk to her the way most girls talk to their mothers—with comfort, honesty, and trust. I share everything with her: my thoughts, my days, my worries, my little moments. I don't hide anymore. And she believes me. She trusts me. She listens.
Now, she is not just my mother—she is my safe place.
I talk to her like a friend, because in truth, when you are a teenage girl, your mother becomes your closest companion. No one understands you the way she does. No one worries about you the way she does. No one loves you in the quiet, invisible ways that she does.
Not every mother is the same, and not every relationship is easy. But sometimes, instead of expecting our parents to understand our language, we must learn theirs. A mother's love has its own language—one made of fear, sacrifice, silence, and care.
And once you learn to read that language, everything changes
What once felt heavy now feels gentle, and what once hurt now feels like home.