**The Weight of a Mother** 

We rise before the sun,  
not because we want to,  
but because little voices call us  
before the world even stirs.  

We are the hands that wipe faces,  
the arms that carry,  
the hearts that hold steady  
when storms break inside small bodies.  

We are overstimulated,  
pulled in every direction,  
our names called until they echo—  
yet we keep moving.  

We are unseen.  
Our labor is called “ordinary,”  
our sacrifice unnamed.  
But we know the truth:  
this is not small work.  
This is the architecture of love.  

We are the ones who tuck in the night,  
who rise in the dark,  
who meet the morning with weary eyes  
and still give everything again.  

We are mothers.  
We are the quiet strength  
that holds the world together.  
We are the ones who disappear into duty,  
yet ache to be seen as human still—  
souls with dreams,  
hearts with needs,  
women beyond the title.  

The weight of a mother  
is heavy,  
but it is holy.  
And though the world may not notice,  
we notice each other.  
We know the cost.  
We know the power.  

We are not invisible.  
We are the light  
that never goes out.