For decades, my mother suffered in silence. She never defended herself, never complained, and rarely allowed anyone to see the depth of her pain. But somewhere, without either of us realizing it, her silence began to find a voice through me.
As a child, I did not understand what was happening around me. I only sensed that something was unfair. As I grew older and my understanding deepened, I began noticing the subtle differences in the way she was treated. Every taunt, every act of disrespect, every moment she was made to feel lesser because she had three daughters or because illness had changed her appearance left an imprint on my heart.
As I grew older, something quietly changed within me. By then, we were living as a nuclear family, and many of the incidents I had witnessed as a child belonged to the past. Yet their impact never left me.
Watching my mother’s silent endurance had shaped something deep within my conscience. I found myself unable to tolerate injustice, disrespect, or unfairness—whether directed at her or anyone else. My opinions became stronger, and I learnt to speak up whenever I believed something was wrong. It felt as though I was giving words to the pain she had buried within herself for decades.
Her silence had become my voice, and her suffering had become my courage.
But by then, much of the damage had already been done.
Years of emotional neglect, silent humiliation, physical exhaustion, repeated surgeries, and the burden of carrying every responsibility alone had taken a devastating toll on her health. Looking back, I often wonder whether decades of unspoken pain slowly found expression through her body. One illness led to another, and what may have once been temporary gradually became chronic. Whether medicine can explain it or not, I could see the invisible wounds she carried reflected in her failing health.
Today, when I look back, I realize that my mother’s suffering did not end with her. It transformed me. It taught me never to normalize disrespect, never to remain silent in the face of injustice, and never to allow someone’s kindness to become an excuse for their mistreatment.
If I have ever found the courage to stand up for what is right, it is because I first witnessed what happens when a good soul spends a lifetime enduring what should never have been endured.
Looking back today, one thing has become abundantly clear to me: despite everything she endured, my mother loved my father deeply. Her love was never expressed through grand words but through quiet acts of care, responsibility, and unwavering devotion. It reflected in the way she looked after him, cared for our family, and continued to stand beside him through every phase of life.
When my father suffered a stroke, I witnessed her becoming both parents for us. She carried the emotional and practical responsibilities of the entire family while shielding us from the gravity of the situation. Hiding her own pain had become second nature by then. It was no longer an occasional act of sacrifice—it had become her way of life.
By then, she had already spent over twenty-five years of her marriage silently enduring emotional neglect, physical exhaustion, and the weight of countless unspoken struggles. The accumulated stress slowly manifested in her body. What began as isolated health issues gradually turned into chronic illnesses, each one compounding the other. Looking back, I cannot help but wonder how much of her physical suffering was rooted in the emotional burdens she carried for decades.
Yet through it all, she never stopped loving, never stopped caring, and never stopped giving.
Sometimes, I wonder whether my mother was truly human.
How could one person bear so much pain and still continue to love, serve, and forgive? How could she silently endure years of taunts, humiliation, emotional neglect, and constant differences within the family without allowing bitterness to consume her?
For years, she lived in an environment where criticism had become routine. The taunts never seemed to end. Yet she chose silence over confrontation, dignity over resentment, and sacrifice over self-preservation.
Even as a child, I sensed the tension within the house, though I was too young to understand its depth. It was only as I grew older that I began to piece together the silent battles she had been fighting all along.
Things slowly began to change after I topped my school in the twelfth standard. The way my parents and our family were looked upon gradually shifted. Respect that had once been withheld began to surface. Perhaps success made people see us differently, but it could never erase the years that had already been lived. By then, the silent suffering had already left deep scars—both on her heart and on her body.
Sometimes I ask myself whether those wounds could ever truly heal. Perhaps they never did.
Today, when I search for the roots of my own resilience, I find them in her. My voice was born from her silence. My courage was shaped by her suffering. If I have ever stood against injustice, it is because I first watched injustice unfold within the walls of my own home. Her pain became my purpose, and her resilience became my inheritance.