25 Years of Motherhood, A Journey of Becoming - Part 5

By Dr. Anupama Vaidya (hc)

We are now celebrating 25 years of my motherhood… Twenty-five years back, I hadn’t imagined that today would change every rhythm of my being. That a tiny heartbeat would become the compass of my life. As I write this, the years unfold before me like gentle waves, moments of joy, courage, learning, and surrender. 

This part of the journey, these next few lessons, are about love evolving through its quieter turns; finding grace in unlikely places, watching roles reverse with tenderness, witnessing her light up the world, and learning to let love flow back my way.  

A phase that transformed my motherhood from being her anchor to finding my own steadiness in her light. 

Because 25 years later, I realize: Motherhood doesn’t end when your child grows up, it simply learns a new language of love. 

25 Lessons from 25 Years of Motherhood: Reflections on Growing Through Love

• Learning 16: Finding Grace in the Unlikely Places
• Learning 17: When the Roles Gently Reverse.
• Learning 18: When She Became My Gentle Light
• Learning 19: The Strength to Let Them Fly
• Learning 20: When Motherhood Learnt to Receive

So here are the lessons 16 to 20 ... ...

16. Finding Grace in the Unlikely Places 

There are phases in life that ask for a kind of strength you don’t prepare for. You grow into it, one breath, one day, one heartbeat at a time.

When we had shifted back to Mumbai for my work, a year later, I began travelling once a month to Pune for a family court matter. My little was just say around 9 years old then, yet she looked at me with clarity and conviction of someone much older, “Maa, I’ll never let you go alone. This is our time together.”

And so, for almost two years, once every month, we made that journey. Not as mother and child, but as companions walking through an unfamiliar chapter, hand in hand. 

For many, such visits would have been filled with silence and strain. But for us, they became something else. A rhythm of quiet courage and connection.

We would sit outside the courthouse, surrounded by the hum of life. Lawyers rushing, papers rustling, people waiting to be heard. My little darling, still so young, would study beside me, sometimes curious, sometimes playful. We would watch the place come alive – its order, its chaos, its patience. We would talk about how the court works, how justice takes patience, how truth always finds its way, even if slowly. (Today, she is training to be Solicitor herself in the legal profession and never realized that all this was shaping her!!!)

What could have been a painful monthly reminder of uncertainty became our day. Between proceedings, we’d head for a nice lunch, share stories, laugh and talk about everything but the reason we were there. The world, for those few hours, felt lighter. Not because the struggle vanished, but because love had softened its edges.

Those days taught me something precious: life doesn’t always give you perfect circumstances, but it does give you the power to choose how you’ll live through them.

We chose 

companionship over complaint, 

strength over sorrow, and 

found grace & joy 

in even the unlikely spaces where pain tried to live.

That phase eventually passed but its imprint stayed.

Quiet, lasting and deep.

I often think how my emotions, if left unchecked, could have rested heavy on her tender spirit.

Motherhood demanded not just patience, but presence. A conscious awareness of what I was feeling in the very moment, because she was feeling it too, in her own way. Looking back, I realize she was reflecting my resilience even then, mirroring strength I hadn’t recognized in myself.

What I tried to protect her from, she transformed into quiet understanding. Time and again, that has been our greatest strength, evolving both of us in ways words can’t quite capture. Her tender love became the spark that reignited my resilience, her quiet faith adding a steady, positive rhythm to our shared journey.

Motherhood taught me that resilience isn’t about rising above difficulty; it’s about redeeming meaning within it. Turning trials into togetherness and endurance into empathy. “When love walks beside you, even the hardest journeys find gentler paths.”

17. When the Roles Gently Reverse.

There comes a quiet turning point in motherhood, one you never really see coming. It doesn’t arrive with ceremony or milestones or announcements. It is not a single moment; it’s a spectrum unfolding. Like dawn, so gentle that you only notice the light once the room has already changed.  It reveals itself in the ordinariness of life.

A weekday afternoon, a running list in my hand, my mind juggling the invisible weight of ten roles at once, professional deadlines, home chores, emotional check-ins. The familiar hum of motion.

That day was just like that. I was halfway through my list. Calls to return, errands to finish, meals to plan. I must have looked exactly as I felt inside: exhausted but still trying to appear “together.” Even after a hyper-organized self, there were too many things to attend to, and too little time.

She looked at me. Calm, observant, intuitive and said softly, “Maa, breathe. You don’t always have to be strong at once for everything.

I paused. Startled not by the words, but by the tenderness behind them. Her tone wasn’t instructive; it was intuitive. In that instant, I realized. 

The roles had quietly begun to shift.

The child who once sought reassurance was now offering it.

The one who once absorbed my calm was now helping me find it again.

Something shifted quietly inside me that day.

I realized motherhood doesn’t stop evolving; it transforms.

Somewhere between her growing up and me learning to let go, she had absorbed the very essence I had once tried to model. Patience, empathy, grace.

But what she returned to me was deeper. A wisdom softened by compassion.

She had learnt,

To read me; not through words, but through pauses.

To hold space; not through advice, but through presence.

To lift me; not through action, but through quiet understanding.

It felt like looking into a mirror that reflected not just who I was, but who I had become because of her. 

Through her eyes, I saw strength not as endurance, but as ease; love not as protection, but as understanding.

That evening, I folded away my list, dropped everything I was doing, and we sat together. No tasks, no roles, just two souls resting in mutual grace.

My vulnerabilities, once carefully tucked behind composure, found space to breathe.

For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t the mother holding it all together.

I was simply a human, held in the quiet assurance of her presence.

And in that stillness, I realized that sometimes grace isn’t passed down; it rises up from the ones we’ve raised.

Motherhood taught me that the greatest teachers often arrive in the smallest voices. The ones you once cradled, now steadying your breath with theirs. “One day, you look into your child’s eyes and realize. She’s not just your reflection; she’s your renewal.”

18. When She Became My Gentle Light

There are some souls who don’t need to shine. They simply glow.

Not by doing more, but by being fully present;

Not by standing out, but by making others feel they belong;

Not by seeking attention, but by radiating ease through their simplicity.

I often wonder when that quiet radiance began to bloom in Ishita. The warmth that makes people gravitate towards her, the ease with which she bridges hearts across ages and differences. 

Children, elders, peers, friends. It never seemed to matter. At family gatherings, she holds conversations that makes grandparents smile and toddlers giggle in the same breath. At work or with friends, her presence softens the room, not by commanding attention, but by offering comfort. And I am not saying since she is my daughter, anyone who experiences her presence can vouch for this observation. 

Somewhere along the way, without any grand teaching, she had learnt the most beautiful art. How to hold space for others without losing herself.

And perhaps that is what true light is. Not about illuminating others from above, but standing beside them so they feel seen, valued, and enough. 

There are times I watch her now, the ease with which she listens, the grace with which she includes, the calm she carries even when life spins around her and I wonder, when did this quiet strength start shaping her?

It must have been growing silently, in the spaces between our conversations, in the moments of shared stillness, in the countless acts of empathy she absorbed more than I ever taught. 

Through her, I’ve learnt that radiance isn’t something you teach. It’s something you become in the presence of another’s light.

It’s not taught through words rather absorbed through energy.

Silently, consistently, tenderly. 

And one day, it reflects back so luminously that you find your own light softening, expanding and glowing in her presence.

Motherhood, I realized, is the most beautiful exchange of light -  you nurture theirs until, without knowing when, it begins to illuminate you. 

Her calm became my reminder to slow down.

Her grace, my cue to trust.

Her warmth, my mirror to love without condition.

I learnt that true brilliance doesn’t seek recognition; it creates resonance. It’s not about being seen, but about seeing others - fully, kindly, gently. “Some lights don’t dazzle. They heal. They remind you that presence, when pure, is the most radiant form of love.”

19. The Strength to Let Them Fly

“The hardest goodbyes are the ones whispered through pride and tears. When your heart wants to hold on, but your love knows it must let go.”

There comes a moment in motherhood when love is tested not by how tightly you hold on, but by how bravely you let go.

For me, that moment arrived when Ishita was fifteen and a half. The Rotary Youth Exchange Program had come up. A full year away from home, in a new country, a new culture, a new rhythm of life.

We were so intricately woven into each other’s life’s that the idea of being apart felt unthinkable. We weren’t just mother and daughter we were each other’s constant.

From morning good mornings to nightly laughter, from errands to emotions, our lives were intertwined, rhythm to rhythm, breath to breath.

And yet, deep down, I knew, true love doesn’t protect by proximity, it strengthens through trust.

So, with trembling courage and a lump in my throat, I said yes. I wasn’t sure how my little darling would show the courage this required, and I knew the final decision had to be hers. She, however, was more than ready. Eyes bright, heart open, eager to explore the world.

For a few moments, I wondered if she truly understood the magnitude of what this meant but as we talked it through, she spoke with a quiet clarity that surprised me, revealing a depth of understanding far beyond her years.

For me, it was a monumental shift.

The same child who once waited by the window and asked my parents the moment I left for work, “Aai kadhi yenar?” (When will mom come home?) was now packing her bags to cross oceans. Ready to live in another country, with another family, speaking another language, making a life of her own.

I watched her folding her clothes neatly into the suitcase; that quiet determination in her gestures; that excitement she tried to mask under composure. My heart swelled with two emotions that refused to blend. Pride and ache.

This was not just her adventure; it was my initiation too, into the art of trusting the very wings I had helped her grow. 

That night at the airport, when she turned to wave one last time, I smiled through tears that knew something sacred was shifting. 

That day, motherhood taught me that courage doesn’t always roar; sometimes it whispers, “She’s ready.”

“The child who once waited for my return was now teaching me how to say goodbye with grace.”

The day she left, the house grew quieter in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Every corner seemed to carry her laughter; every evening felt longer than it should.

I had always been her strength, but that year, she became mine.

Emails, calls, and photos became our lifeline. Stories from her host family, her school, her discoveries, her growth.

I saw her blossom in ways that only distance can teach. Learning not just to live in a new world, but to belong to herself.

She had stepped out from under my shadow, and was now standing fully in her own light.

Her choices carried thought, her words carried depth, and her silence carried grace.

In her, I saw not the child I had raised, but the woman she was becoming. Composed, compassionate, and quietly confident.

And somewhere between her flights and my fears, something changed in me too. 

The mother who once worried about every step learned to walk in faith. 

The daughter who once looked back for reassurance began to look ahead with purpose.

That year wasn’t just her exchange; it was ours. A trade

of dependence for trust,

of closeness for confidence,

of love for liberty.

When she returned,

She was taller in spirit and I was stronger in surrender.

She was more grounded in who she was, and I was lighter in what I held.

She was surer of her voice, and I was softer in mine.

She had found her wings, and I had found my peace.

She came home more her own, and I met myself anew through her.

That experience became the foundation for everything that followed. Her decision to move to the UK for higher education, just a couple of years later, felt less like a leap and more like a natural progression. The next chapter in a story we had both been writing, one of courage, trust, and growth.  

It’s been six years since she’s been away from home, standing on her own feet, shaping a life she can truly call her own. And yet, no matter the miles or time zones,

I’ve come to realize — distance doesn’t dilute love; it deepens it. In every call, every visit, every quiet moment of connection, I feel the same heartbeat. Steady, familiar, and whole.

A love that hasn’t grown apart, but has grown deeper, across distance and time, across all the unseen threads that still bind us. It transforms dependence into trust, and presence into connection that transcends space. A reminder that motherhood is not defined by proximity, but by presence that lives quietly in the heart.

That exchange year, and everything that followed, wasn’t just her journey of independence. It was mine too, of release and renewal.

Through her becoming, I learnt my own.

Motherhood taught me that letting them go doesn’t mean losing them. It means allowing love to grow wings — so it can travel beyond you, and yet, always return to you. “You never really send them away; you send them forward, with a part of your heart disguised as courage.”

20. When Motherhood Learnt to Receive 

Last year, as she completed her education, proudly qualifying through her Solicitor's examination and commencing her Training Contract, started to earn her own salary, something subtle yet profound began to shift.

She had stepped into a new chapter of independence. Steady, composed, and graceful in the way she embraced responsibility.

We planned our annual vacation around her birthday time - to the South of France. I reached a week earlier, re-living Paris memories and exploring the cobbled streets of Grasse, learning the delicate art of perfume-making. A dream I had long held.

By the time she arrived from London, I had my little bottle of fragrance - a creation of my own and a heart waiting to share the joy with her.

I still remember standing at the arrivals gate at Nice airport. She walked out with that familiar stride - confident, radiant, carrying both her suitcase and a quiet assurance that felt new.

And before I could say anything, she smiled and said, “Mom, don’t worry. I’ll take care of the payments from here on. It’s on me.” It wasn’t the words, or the card she pulled out later at dinner, that moved me. It was the shift they represented. The child who once clung to my hand through airport queues was now leading me through them.

The little girl who once looked up to me for every answer was now standing beside me as an equal - sharing, caring, providing, in her own beautiful way.

Every gesture during that trip felt like a mirror, reflecting not just her growth, but mine. The way she booked our tables, managed the itinerary, looked after the details. It was as if all those years of nurturing had quietly bloomed into responsibility and grace. And yet, what touched me most was her natural ease in doing it. No assertion, no announcement, just love flowing in a new direction.

That evening, as we sat overlooking the Riviera sunset, a soft realization washed over me,

Motherhood isn’t just about teaching them to stand tall. It’s about learning how to stand still and let them lead. It’s about receiving with the same openness with which you once gave.

Through her, I learnt that love, when nurtured well, doesn’t fade with distance or time. It matures. It expands. It begins to give back, not out of obligation, but out of shared joy.

Motherhood taught me that the greatest grace lies not in giving endlessly, but in learning to receive wholeheartedly. Because one day, the very love you once poured out returns. Multiplied, tender, and beautifully whole. “You spend years preparing them to fly — and then one day, they carry you along in their wind.”

Bridge to the next lessons.

As I look back on these recent chapters, moments of grace, reversal, light, flight, and shared becoming, I feel blessed to experience how beautifully motherhood evolves. From holding her hand to watching her hold mine, from teaching calm to learning it back, from guiding decisions to witnessing her make her own — every phase has been a quiet reminder that love is not linear; it flows both ways.

The lessons from 16 to 20 have been about transitions, the soft turn where the nurturer becomes the learner, where love matures from care to companionship, and where pride replaces protection.

Now, as I move toward the next reflections, the journey deepens into something even more intimate, lessons not just of growth, but of gratitude. Of recognizing how the child you once raised becomes the reflection of all that you hoped to become.

As we celebrate 25th October, we seek blessings from all of you.... For the story of motherhood is never finished, it simply unfolds, one heartbeat, one lesson, one dawn at a time and continues through every moment of life.

Links: 

• Part 1: Lessons: 1, 2: https://anupamav3010.blogspot.com/2025/10/25-years-of-motherhood-25-lessons-of.html
• Part 2: Lessons: 3, 4, 5: https://anupamav3010.blogspot.com/2025/10/25-years-of-motherhood-25-lessons-of_20.html
• Part 3: Lessons: 6, 7, 8, 9: https://anupamav3010.blogspot.com/2025/10/25-years-of-motherhood-25-years-of.html
• Part 4: Lessons: 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15:   https://anupamav3010.blogspot.com/2025/10/25-years-of-motherhood-25-years-of_23.html