Nothing Truly Prepares a Woman for Womanhood, Not Completely.

I used to think my mother had all the answers. That womanhood was something passed down like an heirloom, refined, polished, ready for use. I thought she knew the way, that she had walked this path before me and could show me how to navigate it.

But I was wrong.

No one tells you that your mother was also figuring it out. That she was not born knowing how to mother, how to nurture, how to prepare a daughter for a world she herself was still trying to understand. No one tells you that mothers too are doing life for the first time. That their choices are not always certainty but often trial and error, faith mixed with fear.

There were days when my mother felt like an unshakable force, her voice steady, her hands firm, her instructions clear. And then there were days when I saw the hesitation in her eyes, the slight quiver in her voice when she told me something she wasn’t entirely sure of. I saw her exhaustion, the kind that seeped into her bones, the weight of a life spent making space for others.

She did not always have the right words, and sometimes she had no words at all. She could not always explain why things were the way they were, why a woman’s worth was measured by her ability to endure, why love so often came with sacrifice, why silence was sometimes safer than speaking. Some things she had accepted without question, and it was only as she watched me question them that she too began to wonder if they had ever been right to begin with.

I used to be angry with her for not knowing better. For not teaching me all the things I had to learn the hard way. But now I realize, how could she have taught me what she was never taught? How could she have given me a roadmap for a journey she was also navigating blind?

And so, I learned.

Daughters are raised by mothers who were once daughters too, trying to fill the gaps left in their own upbringing. We raise our girls by what we wish we had known, by what we had to learn the hard way.

My grandmother never sat my mother down to teach her about love. She taught her how to cook, how to pray, how to be patient. She did not tell her that patience, when stretched too thin, can turn into suffering. She did not tell her that silence can make you disappear.

So my mother learned on her own. She learned that love does not always look the way it does in storybooks, that a good woman is not always loved in return, that sometimes kindness is mistaken for weakness.

And when it was my turn, she did her best to prepare me. But the truth is, nothing truly prepares a woman for womanhood. Not completely.

We must learn to extend grace to the women who raised us, to acknowledge that they did the best they could with what they had. To accept that they too had dreams that never saw the light of day, that they too have wounds that have never fully healed. And just as I hope to be understood, I also try to understand her. But understanding does not mean repeating.

I can hold love for my mother while choosing a different path. I can honor her sacrifices while refusing to inherit her silence. I can learn from her mistakes without carrying them as my own burdens.

To My Daughter

One day you will see me this way. You will look at me and wonder why I did not warn you about certain things, why I let you make mistakes I could have shielded you from, why I held some truths too tightly instead of giving them to you freely. And maybe in that moment, you will realize that I too am just a woman trying my best.

If I had a manual, I would give it to you. But all I have are my stories, my lessons, my love.

And I hope that is enough.

“To the mothers who did their best with what they had, and to the daughters still learning from them, may we hold space for both gratitude and grace.”

Happy Mother’s Day Mumma :)