When I was young, I didn't understand my mother.
She'd wake me up in the dead of night—sometimes as early as four or five in the morning—just so I could walk her to the bus stop. Back then, it felt like a punishment. A cold, dark interruption to my dreams and sleep. I would grumble and drag my feet, my heart heavy with teenage rebellion.
I never saw what she saw: the sacrifice in those early mornings, the tireless rhythm she kept just to make sure we had something.
Years later, when I had to find a job for myself, everything changed. I understood.
I remember the first day I stood in line for the shower at work, waiting with other men who looked as tired as I felt. The cold water hit me and I shivered, but it wasn't just the water—it was a flood of appreciation I hadn't expected.
It hit me like a wave: my mother's mornings, her fatigue, her silent prayers, and all the nights she held herself together for me.
That moment brought tears to my eyes. Not out of weakness, but because I finally understood what it meant to grow.
I wasn't just walking behind her anymore. I was walking beside her—in a new way, with respect, with love.