I am learning that patience in motherhood is different from any other kind of patience.
It is not quiet or still.
It is active. It is daily.
It is emotional.
And sometimes, it stretches parts of your heart I didn’t know existed.
My son, my prince, is going through his own transition. His own process. I paused when I first wrote the word healing, because I’m not sure he would describe it that way. From where I stand, sometimes it looks like coping, rebuilding, and healing. And other times, if I’m honest, it looks like rebelling… or wrestling with feelings he doesn’t yet have words for.
And maybe that’s what growing up looks like. Maybe that’s what healing looks like at ten years old.
There are moments that fill my heart in ways I can’t describe. Sometimes he opens up and talks to me, and I’ll take him talking to me about anything. It’s all music to my ears, even if I don’t fully understand what he’s talking about. The mere fact that he chooses to tell me something—that he trusts me with his thoughts—that alone is a gift.
Sometimes we snuggle and watch a show together, and in those moments his heart feels calm and regulated, and nothing seems wrong in the world. I love the random moments when he pops into my room just to say, “I love you.” And I especially cherish that my boy—ten years old, almost as tall as me—still gives his mom kisses before school and before bed.
Those moments remind me that the softness in him is still there. And I pray it never leaves him.
But then there are the other moments. The moments that require a different kind of patience. The reminding. The repeating. The urging him to make wudu, to pray, to be honest, to act with integrity. The moments where I have to stress lessons he may not yet understand but will one day need.
It’s on me now to give him life lessons that he would normally be receiving from a father as he grows into a young man. And I’m not delusional—I know I don’t know what it takes to be a man. But I do know what it means to raise one.
I am striving to instill deen, good character, and a sense of responsibility. To nurture his softness while also teaching him strength. To guide him without hardening his heart.
And that requires patience. The kind of patience that loves deeply but still holds boundaries. The kind of patience that understands that growth is messy. The kind of patience that believes in the seed, even when the soil looks rough.
Something else motherhood is teaching me about patience is accepting that I cannot fix everything.
As a mother—and even more so as someone who grew up being a people pleaser—it is hard to see a problem and not be able to come up with a solution. It is hard to sit in the discomfort of watching your child hurt and realizing that there are some pains you cannot take away.
This is the child I carried in my womb for ten months. The child I brought into this world through emergency surgery. The child I nourished from my breast while battling postpartum depression, while grieving the loss of my mother, while learning how to keep going when my own heart was heavy.
From the moment he entered this world, with the permission of Allah, I have been there to provide, protect, and nourish him.
And then a calamity comes that is out of my hands… and I am unable to take the pain away. I am unable to fix the boo-boo. There is no kiss that will ease the loss. There are no words that can fully lift the confusion.
There is only a mother’s du’a to her Lord, asking Him to grant her child ease.
And perhaps this, too, is patience—trusting that the One who loves my child more than I ever could is watching over him, even in the moments I cannot reach.
I am that mother who glows when my children smile. I find joy in their joy. And I am also the mother who hurts when they hurt—especially when the hurt is from me.
I understand now that some “no’s” are necessary. I understand that being a good parent will not always look like your children cheering for your decisions. Sometimes it looks like discipline. Sometimes it looks like tears. Sometimes it looks like being misunderstood.
But I pray that I live to see the day when my boy comes to me and says, “Thank you, Mom,” or “I know it wasn’t easy, but you were always there.”
And even if he never says it out loud, I hope one day he understands it quietly in his heart:
She always cared.
She always loved me.
She was always there.
And maybe that is what patience in motherhood truly is—loving your children deeply enough to keep showing up, even when the reward is not immediate, and trusting that the seeds you plant in love will one day bloom in understanding.
—Reflections from a heart learning patience
