بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْم
What is a mother's love?
It is a love that is ready to agree with you. It is a love that is ready to alleviate your pain. It is a love that is ready to sacrifice. It is a love that is ready and has already learned how to give you what you want before you say anything.
You don't have to say anything. You just need to look depressed, and your problem will be solved. You don't have to talk.
It is love that is somehow already interested in whatever makes you happy—just to change your mood, just to keep you balanced. Love that you don't have to ask for. You're hungry? Breakfast is ready. You are given what you want before you ask for it. It’s as if it is competing with the Divine.
But when you step back and look at love, your stomach is full of butterflies. You know when that love is responding—it’s beyond logic. It’s just there to fix things. It’s just there to make things comfortable. It’s just there to ease pain. It is just there.
No wonder the Divine speaks of a mother’s love.
I’m looking at it. I can see it. I can hear it. Just adapt, just care, never scared.
I guess those who have not learned the mother’s love, the mother’s secret, will never know what love is. Maybe that’s why they are trained at an early age with screaming and complete struggle. It’s like breaking them in—to give everything that a human wants. It’s not about them.
And the more children they have, the more broken they are. They can only reflect love. They can only reflect mercy. That’s why you can never ask them to be tough, to be without love, to be without mercy, to be without goodness. It just doesn’t work.
But for men, who don’t go through this, who don’t know this, they are as rough as sandpaper. Because life did not come from them, there is always friction.
Especially for those who are supposed to deliver love, especially spiritual love, they need to learn this carefully—because sandpaper is all they know.
So everybody is driving each other the wrong way.
So ask a mother to stop loving, to stop caring, to stop helping, to stop making excuses—because all she has is love, and love is all she knows how to give.
A mother’s love is not something that can be cut off. It flows endlessly, like a river that knows no drought. It does not wait for gratitude, nor does it seek reward. It is simply there, ever-present, ever-giving, ever-forgiving.
Watching mothers with their children gives me perspective—seeing that love emanates without condition. It does not matter what is wrong with that child; the child is loved, the child is comforted. A language is spoken between mother and child before words even exist. A mother knows before a child can speak. She understands before a tear falls. She soothes before pain fully settles.
Making their children happy, making their children feel heard, making sure their children are taken care of—this is what makes mothers great. Their greatness is not in power, nor in wealth, nor in fame. Their greatness is in the endless well of patience, in the softness that does not break, in the quiet sacrifices no one records, no one applauds, yet are the foundation of everything we become.
A mother does not measure her love. She does not ration it out, afraid of running out. She forgives before the apology. She understands before the explanation. She gives before the request. Every page of a mother’s story is written in love, every chapter filled with continuous forgiveness, every moment a chance to say, “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you.”
And she continues.
She never stops.
She never gives up.
How beautiful is that?
So look between the covers, look deep within, and you will see it—the Divine love that never lets go, that will not allow them to feel anything but love. A love so complete, so consuming, that it becomes second nature, an instinct, a force that flows through them like the breath of life itself. Through them, we understand Divine love, for who else gives without asking? Who else forgives without limit? Who else shelters without hesitation?
But even this love, vast as the sky, deep as the ocean, needs something more. The Divine love needs those who have been divinely infused with a love beyond the mother’s—a love not just to comfort, but to guide. A love not just to protect, but to awaken. A love that does not simply hold, but directs towards the One who is beyond all love, all mercy, all giving.
And here lies the challenge.
A relationship must be born from this love, but what happens when the ones meant to protect and lead—the fathers, the men—only know how to give toughness? What happens when the only language they speak is discipline, strength, and expectation, while the mother speaks the language of warmth, patience, and grace?
How does one bridge the gap between a heart that aches to nurture and a hand that only knows how to forge?
For a man raised in a world where love is a scarcity, where softness is a weakness, where mercy is a luxury, how does he learn to love like a mother? How does he learn to give what he was never given?
The answer is not in breaking him but in teaching him.
A mother’s love is the seed, but it needs a gardener who understands how to tend it, how to let it grow without stifling it, how to allow it to flourish without being threatened by its softness. The man who can embrace the gentleness of love without feeling weakened by it is the man who truly understands strength. The father who learns from the mother, not as a lesser force, but as a co-creator of something sacred, is the father who will not just lead his children but elevate them.
The greatest men in history were not those who commanded with iron hands, but those who carried love in their hearts and were unafraid to show it. The ones who did not fear softness, who did not reject mercy, who did not distance themselves from what gives life meaning.
So a relationship must be born from this love—not one of opposition, not one where strength and softness battle for dominance, but one where they complete each other.
For love, without guidance, can become indulgence. And guidance, without love, can become cruelty.
It is only when they meet in harmony that the Divine love manifests in its truest form—a love that gives, a love that corrects, a love that leads back to the Source of all things.
I am writing this while watching a conversation between a mother and her child—a child she pretends to discipline, and a child who, with wide eyes and knowing innocence, understands that this love can always be taken advantage of.
The child lies, tests boundaries, pushes limits—not out of malice, but because deep down, they know. They know that this person will never truly hurt them. That no matter how many times they misbehave, no matter how many times they are scolded, there is no real consequence beyond a stern look, a sigh, maybe a temporary withdrawal of attention. They know that the love remains, untouchable, unwavering.
It is so apparent with toddlers—the way they press against the edges of patience, the way they dance at the border of defiance, because they have already understood something profound before they even have the words for it.
Love is not something that disappears.
Love will not abandon them.
And so, they are free to be as naughty as they want, to test and push, to rebel in the small ways they can. It is a silent agreement between mother and child, an unspoken truth: You will always love me, no matter what I do.
But what happens when this same understanding grows unchecked?
What happens when love is so unconditional that it becomes blind?
What happens when the child, now older, still tests, still lies, still pushes, because they never learned where love ends and responsibility begins?
A mother’s love is vast, forgiving, endlessly patient. But can there be love without discipline? Can there be care without correction? Can a child truly understand the depth of that love if they are never shown the weight of consequence?
And yet, even in this, the child knows what the mother does not.
That love, true love, is a safe place. A place where mistakes can be made, where wrongs can be committed, where trust can be broken—yet the door is never closed.
They know that love, real love, will always be there.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the lesson they a
re teaching us all along.