Loud love for a quiet heart

Motherhood is often described through sacrifice — sleepless nights, quiet prayers and tired hands that still manage to prepare meals before dawn. But beyond the grand gestures celebrated every Mother’s Day, motherhood is also found in the smallest things: in the way a mother remembers exactly how her child likes their coffee, waits up until everyone gets home safely, or chooses to stay strong even when life gives her every reason to break.

Mothers, no matter where they come from, carry the same instinct. They protect before they rest. They nurture before they heal themselves. They love in ways that are not always loud, but are always present. Some mothers are expressive with words, while others speak through actions — through packed lunches, folded clothes, reminders to eat, or silent prayers whispered before sleep

My mother belongs to the latter.

Mama has always been the center of our household. She handles the groceries, the budget, the chores, and almost everything that keeps our home together. Before anyone else taught us about the world, she was already teaching us how to live in it — how to smile, speak, walk and eat. She was our first teacher long before we entered a classroom.

Women of this generation are often described as barrier-breakers, and my mother is one of them.

She grew up in a household that was both loud and quiet — loud because of her father’s constant complaints toward her mother, and quiet because she was mostly raised by nannies. Yet, despite that environment, she chose a completely different path when she built her own family. Though she carried traces of that childhood distance within her, she never failed to be present in our lives. She attended my pageants, quiz bees, school programs, and every milestone in between.

Still, she wasn't always the overly expressive type. My father was usually the one who communicated with us directly, while she was the final say — calm, composed, and gentle even in discipline.

Then, life changed all at once.

When my father died, my mother had no choice but to become both mother and father to four children while in her 40s. The grief could have hardened her, but instead, it softened her. Slowly, she learned to communicate openly with us. Not abruptly or forcefully, but gently — in the way only a mother could.

What makes me admire her most is the way she continues to love my father even after his death.

One random Monday morning, she woke up earlier than usual to cook breakfast before my class in Manila. While we were eating, I casually asked her, “Ma, gusto mo pang magmahal ulit?” (Ma, do you want to love again?)

Without hesitation, she answered, “Hindi na, nak. Si Papa mo na yung dinala ko sa altar. Ang laswa na no'n. Habang buhay na si papa mo lang.” (No more, child. It was your father I brought to the altar. It wouldn't feel right anymore. For the rest of my life, it will only be him.)

In that moment, she taught me what unconditional love truly means. Love is not only found in romance; it exists in loyalty and in the quiet decision to continue choosing someone even after they are gone.

She made me believe that love is a choice.

People often say, “until death do us part,” but my mother showed me that love continues beyond the grave. She loves my father through us, through the life they built together, and through the strength she carries every day. She makes being both a mother and a father look effortless, even when I know it is not.

If I could trade anything just to keep her by my side forever, I would. If there is another life after this one, I would still choose her.

“Sana sa susunod kong buhay, ikaw pa rin ang nanay ko, Isak.” (I hope in my next life, you are still my mother, Isak.)

Mother’s Day should never be just about a greeting posted once a year. While flowers and celebrations matter, the greatest gift we can give our mothers is appreciation while they are still here. Treat her to the places she has always wanted to go. Spend time with her. Listen to her stories. Hug her a little longer.

Because one day, we will realize that the hands that once raised us are also growing tired. And mothers — no matter how strong they seem — deserve to be loved loudly, too.