Let’s travel back in time for a moment. Back to the years we barely even remember ourselves, the blurry childhood memories that mostly live through old photos, family stories, and those aunties who always say, “Nilikuona ukiwa mdogo, hunikumbuki?” And honestly… no, we probably do not remember. But somehow, they always do.

Those were the days of oversized school sweaters that swallowed us whole, tiny shoes that barely stayed on, scraped knees that always seemed to heal faster than the worry they caused, and being carried half-asleep from the car into the house after long days out. Days when someone else held the weight of remembering everything for us, our favorite meals, our fears, the way we cried, the songs that soothed us, even the exact way we liked our tea… before we ever learned to make it ourselves 

And even before those memories existed, before we even took our first breath, we were already loved. Loved before we spoke our first word. Before we took our first step. Before we became anything to the world. For months, we were carried by someone who had never even seen our face, yet somehow knew us completely. A strange, beautiful kind of safety wrapped in heartbeat, sacrifice, exhaustion, prayer, and hope. The kind of love that begins long before introduction. Long before recognition. Long before we ever learn how to return it.

Then we arrive into the world. Tiny hands, uncertain steps, loud cries in the middle of the night… and somehow, our mothers were there for all of it. Protector, teacher, nurse, chef, alarm clock, and biggest supporter, all at once. Somehow balancing her own dreams, responsibilities, career, and exhaustion while still nurturing a family with tenderness.

Growing up, love often sounded different. It sounded like being called from another room before your name was even finished. Like hearing, “Vunja zote!” even when only one bowl accidentally fell. It sounded like the endless questions before leaving the house:“Umefika?” “Who are you going with?” “What time will you be back?” Or when we were really craving chips and chicken na Fanta baridi, and her response on most, if not all, occasions was “Kuna food home.” How can you compare that with home food? Then we thought she was blocking our joy in life. We didn’t understand the assignment. But now? Now you open your wallet, see rent, see bills, and suddenly you understand exactly what she meant. And honestly… she was right all along. To some extent.

But behind all those moments was care. Real care. The kind that worries even after you’ve grown up. The kind that stays awake until you get home. The kind that notices when your voice sounds different over the phone. And as our journeys continue, there’s a part of our mothers’ lives we rarely get to fully see. The silent sacrifices. The exhaustion they hide behind smiles. The prayers whispered on their knees when life became difficult for us. The fear they carried during our firsts: the first day at school, the first heartbreak, the first failure, and the many firsts still waiting ahead. And even when we become older, taller, independent, to them, we are still their child. Still, the person they would do anything for.

On 8th May 2026, I had the opportunity to be part of the Mother’s Day celebration hosted by the People and Culture team. The theme for the day was light pink and green, such a soft and beautiful combination. And honestly, pink felt fitting because, at the end of the day, they’re just girls too. Beyond being mothers, caretakers, and pillars for everyone else, there’s still a gentle, joyful, and vibrant side to them.

And what I loved most was how motherhood existed in so many different forms within that room. There were mothers raising children. Daughters celebrating their mothers. Mothers-to-be quietly waiting for their turn. Women expecting children in a few days or months. New mothers learning as they go. Women nurturing entire communities. Plant mothers. Pet mothers. And honestly, as someone with 17 cats that I absolutely adore, I felt very represented. Over a delicious meal, conversations flowed naturally across the room. Laughter echoed between tables. Stories were shared openly. For a few hours, it did not feel like people were trying to perform perfection. It felt human. Honest.

My highlight of the day for me was definitely the panel discussion. Listening to women from different walks of life speak honestly about motherhood, womanhood, balance, sacrifice, and identity. There was so much honesty in the room. No pretending. No perfection. Just real experiences shared with openness and grace.

A few things stayed with me long after the event ended:

– Motherhood is not a competition. It’s your own race.

– Be kind to yourself.

– Find joy and identity beyond responsibility.

– Find a community of women who pour back into you too.

And somewhere in the middle of all those conversations, I found myself thinking about my own mother. The little things she does every day that I honestly overlook way too easily. The quiet ways she shows care in ordinary moments. The way she keeps giving even when she is clearly running on low battery. And of course… the food. Always the food. Because somehow, no matter how tired she is, there is still a meal waiting. Recently, we had one of those family moments that you just can’t forget. My sister was trying to send a sweet message in our family group “Thank you mum for the yummy breakfast…” Very wholesome. Very innocent. Instead of landing in the family group, it went straight to her work group. Yes. Her colleagues saw the whole thing, and she deleted it faster than you can say “wrong chat.” We were laughing when we found out. Because honestly, nothing humbles you like your appreciation message accidentally becoming office content. But in between the laughter, it also hit me that those small, everyday acts of hers carry so much love that even a wrong WhatsApp group couldn’t reduce it. If anything, it just reminded us again how much she does for us…

Do I truly honor her enough? Do I notice when she is exhausted? Do I say thank you enough for the ordinary things she does so effortlessly? Do I see her beyond simply being “my mother”?  Because before she became my mother, she was someone’s daughter. Someone with dreams, fears, ambitions, friendships, and a whole life of her own. And maybe honoring our mothers truly begins there, by seeing them fully, not only for what they do for us, but for who they are.

And as beautiful as Mother’s Day is, I also found myself thinking about the people for whom the day does not come wrapped in celebration alone. Because sometimes, while the world is posting flowers, family photos, and heartfelt captions, someone else is quietly trying to make it through the day without falling apart.

I thought about women who have lost their children. And honestly, I cannot imagine the kind of silence that loss must bring. A heartbreak that lives there: the kind that changes a person forever. To carry life, love deeply, dream about a future with someone, and then have to continue living without them… mothers who still set aside thoughts for children no longer here, mothers who still remember birthdays, tiny laughs, favorite foods, or the way small hands once held onto theirs. Even when the world moves on, I do not think a mother’s heart ever truly does.

Women who long to become mothers. Silently trusting God, hoping, praying, waiting month after month while carrying questions they are constantly asked by the world around them. Sometimes people speak carelessly, not realizing how painful simple questions can become. And yet, these women continue showing up with strength, with hope, with faith, even on the days it feels heavy. I think that kind of strength deserves gentleness too.

I also thought about people who have lost their mothers. Because no matter how old we become, there is something about losing a mother that shifts the world a little. Sometimes grief appears unexpectedly, in recipes that taste almost right but not quite the same, in hearing someone laugh like her, in wanting to make a phone call before remembering you no longer can. Mothers leave fingerprints on our lives in the smallest ways, and when that love is gone physically, its absence can feel incredibly loud.

And for some people, Mother’s Day brings complicated emotions because their relationship with their mother was never easy to begin with. Not every mother-child relationship is soft, close, or healing. Some people carry distance, silence, hurt, abandonment, or wounds they are still trying to understand. And I think those stories deserve compassion too. Because sometimes the hardest thing is grieving a relationship with someone who is still alive, or mourning the kind of love you wish you had received.

Truly, a special prayer for anyone navigating this day with heaviness in their heart. The truth is, no one fully understands that journey except the person walking through it. And sometimes people celebrate loudly without realizing someone beside them is quietly carrying pain.

We hold space for all of it. We still honor motherhood in all its forms: the joyful parts, the painful parts, the hopeful parts, and even the unfinished parts.

And so, for my mother and yours, Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for being there every single day, even the days we didn’t notice it or didn’t say it back. Thank you for everything you are… even the parts we are still growing to understand.

May we love them loudly. Appreciate them deeply. And see them fully, while we still can.

Article written by: Jemmy M. Kamau