Mothers. We call them by many names: mama, nanay, mom, and so many others.
We meet them as our caregivers, protectors, and teachers. They are the comforting embrace that cradles us as we learn how the world works and our place in it.
We learn their little quirks: how they take their coffee, their favorite book, the particular tone of their worried voice. And yet, for most of our formative years, we only know them as extensions to ourselves. Failing to realize that they are people with their own lives outside of us, too. They didn’t just appear out of thin air for us when we came into this world. Their lives aren’t just prologues to ours. They are fully fleshed out characters in their own book of life.
Most of us never really look for the realization. It just comes at us, prying our eyes open, and makes us see our mothers for the first time.
A daughter hears about her mother’s old penpal from high school. A son hears anecdotes about the gimmicks his mother and her barkada had. A child hears about their mother’s dreams, the ones that got away and the ones she let go for better ones.
Sometimes, the revelation can be disorienting. You see the pictures, hear the stories, and can’t help but think, I don’t know the person looking back at you or the person they’re talking about, but you do. They’re still there, changed, but the essence remains. You see it in how your grandmother still dotes on them occasionally. The inside jokes that only their barkada knows. The secret language only your parents understand. Their essences remain within them.
These fragments of their lives, which we will never fully know and understand, are undeniable evidence that our mothers exist beyond the borders of our needs. Your mother is a person, too.
Society forces mothers to shrink themselves, expecting them to become one-note versions of themselves. It crucifies mothers for going out and having fun that does not involve their family and shames them for hobbies that aren’t homemaker-like.
And yet our mothers’ individuality persists even when we’re not looking. It lives in the mundane, the fleeting, and the rebellious: the way she still takes care of the orchids her sister gave her before you were even born; the lilt in her voice when talking about her favorite things; the way she indulges in her hobbies like cross-stitching and crocheting as small acts of reclaiming her time—having time for her and her only.
Her personhood exists in the quiet moments between her roles, not as remnants of who she was before but as proof of a life she continues to live. It is hers. A life lived not revolving around us and for us. It is one that is lived despite us.
Mothers aren’t saints. They aren’t martyrs. They aren’t side characters that serve to enrich our story. They are people who love us enough to let their worlds bend without losing themselves in the process.
When you open your eyes, I hope you never close them again. We do a disservice to our mothers when we limit them to who they are to us and the labor they constantly do for us. To know your mother as a person, not an extension of you, is to meet them.
So the next time you call her mama, nanay, or mom, remember that she is more than just the name she embraced after you came into her life. She is a person, whole and complex, deserving to be seen and loved for who she truly is.
by Trisha Hortillo