When my child was first diagnosed, I went quiet. Not because I was ashamed — but because I was overwhelmed. The dreams I had for him suddenly felt fragile. The world, which was already hard enough, suddenly looked even colder. People stared. Friends disappeared. Some family didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing at all.
But silence couldn’t last. My child needed more — not less — of my voice. So I spoke up. I learned to challenge schools, ask questions doctors didn’t always like, and push for therapy, support, and space for my child to grow at his own pace.
Raising a mentally disabled child is not a one-person job, but many days, it feels like one. It’s waking up early, calming meltdowns, being both protector and teacher, cheering for tiny steps that the world might miss. It’s carrying both your pain and theirs, every single day.
And yet — this is not a sad story.
Because something unexpected happened: " MEANING found me "
Victor Frankl once wrote,
“ Those who have a why to live can bear with almost any how.”
My son became that why. Not as a burden, but as a calling.
He gave my pain a purpose.
He taught me to see life differently
— more slowly, more tenderly, more truly.
The world might see his limitations, but I see the purity in his joy, the honesty in his struggle, and the sacredness in his smallest victories.
What gave me meaning?
It wasn’t some grand achievement. It was love
— steady, demanding, beautiful love.
It was learning to find purpose not despite the hardship, but through it. When I had nothing left but my love for him, I realized: that was everything.
Children like mine — they dismantle illusions. They don’t let you hide behind convenience or social expectations. They invite you into something harder, and holier: authentic care. They teach you, if you’re willing, what it means to be fully present, and fiercely human.
So this Mother’s Day, I don’t need flowers — though they’re nice.
What I really need is understanding. Awareness.
A little less pity and a little more respect. Not just for me, but for all mothers, raising children who don’t fit into neat fixed boxes.
We are not saints. We are not superheroes. We are mothers
— doing what mothers do: showing up, staying strong, and loving hard.
And through that love, we find meaning
— again and again.
Moral :
Life asks us to find meaning not in ideal circumstances, but in the very heart of suffering, responsibility, and love. When we can no longer change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves
— to rise through devotion,
— to grow through hardship, and
— to love in spite of pain.
For this mother, meaning was not something she found
— it was something she gave.
And in giving, she became more deeply human.
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