Celebrating my mom’s heroism this Women’s Month

Last 13 March was my mother’s birthday. This Women’s Month, when we honor women’s courage and sacrifices, I find myself thinking not just of famous battles or monuments but of the remarkable heroism of a woman who simply did what needed to be done for her children.

My mother was not a woman of many words. She was a woman of work.

Upon retirement from public service, she ran a small botika — the kind of neighborhood pharmacy where people did not only buy medicine but also shared stories, worries and hopes.

From early morning until late evening, she stood behind the counter, counting tablets, preparing prescriptions and attending to customers who trusted her not only for medicine but also for kindness.

That little pharmacy was more than a store. It was the engine that carried my brother and me through college.

Singlehandedly, she worked to support our studies in Manila. There were no complaints, no dramatic sacrifices announced to the world. She simply worked — day after day — because that was what mothers like her did. She believed education was the greatest gift she could give her children, and she quietly gave everything she had to make it happen.

While we studied in Manila, she would visit us from time to time. Those visits were always something we looked forward to. She never came empty-handed. Like many Filipino mothers traveling from the province to the city, she brought with her simple but heartfelt pasalubong — fruits from home and, quite memorably, pig’s brain, a delicacy she knew we enjoyed, and of course, our allowances for the next month.

Looking back now, I realize that those visits were not just about bringing food. They were her way of checking on us, making sure we were eating well, studying hard, and living properly. A mother’s concern often comes wrapped in the simplest gestures.

At the time, we were too busy with classes, exams, and the rush of building our futures to fully appreciate the effort it took for her to leave the pharmacy, even for a short trip. Closing the botika for a day meant lost income, but seeing her sons was worth it.

As children grow older, they often promise themselves they will repay their parents someday. “When I am more successful,” we say. “When I have more time.” “When things settle down.”

But life has its own timetable.

My mother passed away at the age of 69. Among my deepest regrets is that I was never able to bring her abroad. I had always imagined taking her on a trip — letting her see places she had only heard about, giving her a chance to enjoy life beyond the familiar streets of the province where she had worked so hard.

I thought there would always be time.

There wasn’t.

Yet when I reflect on her life, I realize that perhaps the places she valued most were never foreign destinations. They were the small spaces where her love made a difference — her botika, our modest home, and the journeys she took to Manila bearing fruits and food for her sons.

My mother may not have traveled the world, but through the lives she helped shape, her love continues to go far beyond it.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest journey of all.