Motherhood in All Its Forms: A Letter from a Once-Teen Mom

I became a mother at 16.

He came into my life like a beam of light I didn’t know I needed.

So small, so beautiful, so full of presence.

And suddenly, the world wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about him: his safety, his future, his joy.

I loved him fiercely, immediately, but truthfully, I was afraid.

No one prepares you for motherhood,

And even less for motherhood when you’re still growing up yourself.

I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel like I was enough.

And I carried that feeling quietly, day after day, trying to give him what I didn’t yet know how to give myself: stability, grounding, unwavering love.

My own mother loved me with deep feeling.

She was expressive, warm, and present, especially in my earliest years.

I was born during a time of war, and she held our family together while my father was away, carrying responsibilities far beyond what anyone should have to bear alone.

I remember sleeping beside her, feeling safe in her closeness, gently held by the quiet strength of her love.

But as I grew, I began to sense the weight she carried, the ways stress and sacrifice shaped her responses.

Sometimes, I felt I had to be strong for her, to ease her burden, to make things lighter.

Still, I am grateful. I love her deeply.

She gave me so much of herself, and even in the moments that felt confusing, I never doubted her love.

That early bond stayed with me, quietly guiding how I learned to care for others.

I was criticized for everything.

Too young. Too soft. Too serious. Too distracted.

I tried to be everything, and somehow still felt like I was failing.

But I kept going.

Because every time I looked at him, I remembered why I had to keep becoming.

As he grew, I grew with him.

Some of my favorite memories are from when he was a bit older: taking him to soccer practice, watching him play, cheering from the sidelines.

Moments where I felt proud not just of him, but of us.

We were finding our rhythm. I was learning how to mother through presence, not perfection.

And even now, I have regrets.

So many mothers do.

We wish we had known more, been more, loved better: but the truth is, we mother with what we have in the moment, and we carry the rest in love.

Years later, motherhood came again, in new forms.

Through my step-son, whom I love deeply. I was older then, more grounded, and had a partner beside me.

And through my fur babies, each of them like family: with their own souls, their own needs, their own place in my heart.

In witnessing all these expressions of care, I’ve come to see that motherhood shapes more than children.

It also shapes future partners, future parents, and how we love and are loved in return.

When nurturing is absent or inconsistent in early life, it can leave deep imprints.

I’ve seen how the echoes of that absence can show up later: in the people we try to love, in the ways they resist closeness, or fear being held.

And I’ve come to understand that this, too, is part of the story of motherhood: its reach, its tenderness, and sometimes, its rupture.

And now, I get to witness my son as a father himself.

Watching him with his own child fills me with something I can’t quite name: pride, awe, and a quiet kind of healing.

My grandson is a reminder that love evolves, that we keep learning, and that even imperfect motherhood can grow into something whole.

Because motherhood isn’t one single story.

It’s not defined by giving birth.

It’s defined by love, by how deeply we care, by how we show up.

Some women become mothers through adoption, step-parenting, or caregiving.

Some women mother their friends, their students, their communities.

Some mother animals, nurturing them with the same fierce tenderness.

Some women long to be mothers, and carry that love in quiet, invisible ways.

And some, like me, began the journey far earlier than expected, and found their way through confusion, love, and the unwavering desire to give their child a better world.

This Mother’s Day, I honour the mother I was, the one I still am, and the many women who carry this role in all its forms.

To the mothers who tried their best.

To the mothers who made mistakes.

To the mothers who gave more than they had.

To the ones who lost children, or never had the chance.

To the ones who nurture without a title.

To the ones still healing.

You are all mothers.

And your love matters more than you know.