0
Share on bsky
There are days when I leave my therapy room carrying more than notes.
I leave carrying stories that do not end when the session ends, and that stay with me long after the door closes.
I work with children who experience the world differently, and over time, I have learned that beside every child there is a mother holding a weight that is rarely visible from the outside.
This text is about that weight.
Not about diagnoses.
Not about therapy.
It’s about what it feels like to be a mother caring for a child whose path is different from the one she imagined.
Not hearing the word “Mama” changes something deep inside you. At first, you tell yourself that it doesn’t really matter, that love doesn’t need words, that connection can exist in other ways.
And most days, you truly believe that.
Until you hear another child say it…easily.
“Mama.”
And for a brief moment, your body reacts before your mind has time to protect you. The smile stays in place. The pain moves inward.
Caring for a child like this changes the rhythm of everyday life. Ordinary places no longer feel ordinary. Playgrounds are not places of rest. Group activities are not moments of ease. Even joy is accompanied by tension, because every small progress carries the quiet fear of losing it.
There are questions that return again and again, no matter how much you try to push them away.
Will my child ever speak?
Will my child ever understand me?
Will my child ever have friends?
And the question that rarely finds words, but never leaves:
What will happen to my child when I’m not here anymore?
During the day, there is no room for this fear. There are schedules to keep, appointments to attend, routines that cannot be skipped. There are questions asked by others, often without realizing the weight they add.
“When will he talk?”
“Does she understand you?”
“Will things get easier?”
The answers are calm. Polite. Practiced.
“We’re working on it.”
But the fear does not disappear. It waits.
It waits for the night, when the house grows quiet and the child finally falls asleep, when there is no one left to be strong for.
That is when many mothers cry.
Not loudly.
Not for attention.
Quietly.
Into a pillow.
Because holding everything together all day takes more strength than anyone sees.
Caring for a child who experiences the world differently means learning a different language of love, one measured in glances, in moments of calm, in connections that the world often simply overlooks. It also means living with a constant tension, between acceptance and longing, between gratitude and grief.
What I witness, again and again, is not weakness.
It is endurance.
A kind of devotion that doesn’t get applause.
A strength that shows up every morning, even when the heart feels tired.
Some stories do not need to be fixed.
They need to be seen.
And if you are a mother reading this and feeling something tighten inside your chest, it is because this story feels familiar.
You are not imagining the weight.
You are not failing.
You are carrying a motherhood that few people truly understand.
~
author: Elena Roxana Ungureanu, Clinical Psychologist
Image: cottonbro studio/Pexels
Editor: Molly Murphy
Read 4 comments and reply