The Love I Still Carry

In the previous years, I think most of my friends only saw me as just me. I never really had the chance to introduce my mom to my “real” friends until very recently, and the truth is, it was because I carried resentment toward her for a very long time.

Before you raise your eyebrow or judge me for saying that, please give me the chance to share my story.

My mom is not a typical mom. She’s the kind of mother who had very little understanding of anything new or modern. She’s the type who would buy old appliances, the kind most people would already throw away  like an electric fan that still works even without its cover.

She’s the kind who makes lumpia without caring if they’re all the same size. Yung tipong “bara-bara lang” kung tawagin ng iba. She cooks pancit with sardines and happily invites friends over to eat, while I sit there silently, embarrassed, noticing the judgment on other people’s faces.

She haggles hard in the market, sometimes asking for almost 50% off, and as a child, I could already read the irritation and judgment from the tindera’s face. She’s also the kind of person who says things without fully thinking about how they might sound or affect other people.

And growing up, I hated all of it. I hated how different she was from the mothers I saw around me. I hated how, in my young mind, she always seemed “out of place.”  And there are a lot of stories of ignorance and being tactless and less diplomatic.

So instead of understanding her, I slowly became embarrassed by her.

I studied in a private school, surrounded by classmates who came from privileged families, and even at a young age, I could already see the difference between their lives and mine.

I did not even wear a sando under my school uniform until I reached Grade 6 because my mom did not think it was necessary. She was also my hairdresser until one of my teachers noticed that my haircut looked “ukit-ukit.” I still remember the embarrassment I felt hearing that.

I was never late to school, not because we were disciplined about time, but because my mom had no real concept of being “on time.” For her, being early by one or two hours was better than risking being late. So while other students casually arrived just before the bell rang, I was always the child sitting outside the classroom while the campus was still quiet.

These may seem like small things now, but as a child trying so hard to fit in, every difference felt heavy. Every little thing became another reason for me to feel ashamed of where I came from and, unfairly, ashamed of my mother too.

I thought “Bakit ganon siya…”

I also grew up hearing stories about how my mother would spank my siblings without first trying to understand what happened. One time, my ate came home later than usual, and my mother immediately slapped her without even asking why she was late.

There was also a story about my older brother who came home proud after receiving an award in school, but instead of being celebrated, he ended up being beaten up. Until now, I still do not fully understand why.

As children, we did not always understand where her anger came from. We only knew how painful and confusing it felt. And slowly, those moments shaped how I saw my mother growing up.

And there’s a lot more.

To be honest, I haven’t fully healed from all the trauma because it is only now that I am finally facing it head-on. For the longest time, I think I survived by avoiding it, by pretending that everything was already okay as long as I kept moving forward.

There was even a time after graduation when I tried so hard to be independent that I rarely visited my mother anymore. I kept my distance emotionally and physically, yet I still made sure to give a portion of my salary to support her because, for me, that was simply what a child should do.

I fulfilled my responsibility, but deep inside, there was still unresolved pain. I was present in obligation, but absent in connection.

In 2015, I had the chance to visit the place where my mother grew up. I met some of my relatives there, and for the first time, I slowly began to understand why my mom became the person she was.

They had no access to clean water. Quality education was very limited, and life was centered on survival because they simply did not have enough. My mother had to start working at a very young age just so she could continue going to school. No one in their lineage had finished college, and poverty was something they lived with every single day.

That trip changed something in me. For the first time, I stopped looking at my mother only through the lens of my pain and embarrassment. I started seeing her as someone who was also shaped by hardship, lack, and struggles I could never fully imagine.

My mom is getting older now, and when I look at the lines on her face, I no longer just see age. I see years of hardship, sacrifice, and survival. Every wrinkle seems to carry a story of a life that was never easy.

I am still slowly healing myself, and little by little, I am learning to come to terms with the pain and memories of the past. Some wounds do not disappear overnight, but I think healing also means allowing yourself to understand, forgive, and love despite everything.

Now, more than anything, I want to hold on to whatever time we have left. I want her to witness my small wins, the little moments I once kept away from her. Because despite all the pain, she is still my mother, and deep inside, I still want to make her feel that all her sacrifices somehow led to something better for me.

Our relationship is not perfect, but I always find myself going back to that little child, “Masyong.” I know that deep inside, whether she admits it or not, is her favorite. Happy Mother’s Day Mom!