Some women break glass ceilings, some build empires, some change the course of history with their names carved into books and buildings.
And then there are the women who quietly change the world in ways history does not record. They do it with hands that build, hearts that love, and eyes that see the pain of others and cannot look away.
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My mother was one of those women. Her name was Ayşe.
At 21, she left behind everything she knew – her mother’s embrace, the familiar streets of her childhood, the language she spoke like a melody – to start anew in London. She carried my father’s dreams in one hand and me, a three-month-old baby, in the other. But don’t mistake her for a woman merely following a man’s ambition. No, she was planting it, watering it, willing it to grow.
She arrived in a foreign city without a word of English. Undeterred, she taught herself – dictionary in one hand, television remote in the other. She watched. She listened. She learned. And she worked. Not in corner offices or boardrooms where voices are amplified and valued, but in the unseen places where effort is expected yet rarely acknowledged. She stocked shelves in a London supermarket and scrubbed staircases in our building – honest work to buy milk for her baby. She told those stories with pride, and I carry them with even greater pride. Because her lesson was clear: as long as it’s honest, no work is beneath you.
When life uprooted us to Saudi Arabia – a place where women couldn’t work, couldn’t drive, couldn’t breathe freely – she refused to let rules define her worth. She became a caterer, a bus mother, a makeup artist, a hairdresser – whatever it took to add a few extra pennies to the pot. She did everything that needed doing.
She Built More Than a Home – She Built a Life
When our house needed repairs, she didn’t wait for someone else to fix it. She laid ceramic tiles, built walls, painted rooms, and planted gardens, filling empty spaces with life. When she couldn’t afford the fine things she dreamed of, she created them. A gifted seamstress, she could walk through the grandest boutiques, study the fall of fabrics and the precision of stitches, then return home to replicate those designs with her own hands. I never felt the absence of wealth because she refused to let me feel it. She dressed me like I’d been born into luxury – coats and dresses fit for the finest storefronts in London.
For my wedding day, she didn’t just buy me a dress – she made it. Stitch by stitch, bead by bead, lace by lace. The buttons she sewed into it – tiny, delicate, perfect – were ones she’d bought when I was a little girl in London, saved for years for the moment she’d dress her daughter as a bride. She had an eye for beauty, but more than that, she had patience, perseverance, and vision. Fine things, she knew, are built over time.
Even her dreams unfolded slowly, deliberately. When she wanted a 12-person fine china set, she didn’t buy it all at once. She collected it piece by piece – one plate at a time – until the set was complete. That was her way: she built her life like that china set, with care and determination, one piece at a time.
She was smart, incredibly so. She loved real estate investing – not because she was formally trained, but because she had an instinct for it, a business mind that saw opportunities others didn’t. And in many ways, I learned real estate from her.
She Filled the World with Warmth
My mother was an incredible cook and baker. Her hands – the same hands that laid tiles, stitched gowns, and planted gardens – could craft the most heartwarming meals and set the most beautiful tables. The scent of fresh bread, simmering stews, and delicate pastries filled our home. She didn’t just cook to nourish; she cooked to bring joy, to gather people, to fill our home with warmth. Her food was more than sustenance – it was love made edible.
She loved nature just as fiercely. She spoke to every plant as if it were a child, coaxing them to grow with whispered words and tender care. She found happiness in the simple joy of a breeze on her face, in the way flowers bloomed under her touch. To her, life itself was a garden to tend with love.
She Lived with Grace and Gave Without Limit
No matter how grueling her day, I’d find her dressed beautifully, makeup done, as if headed somewhere special. “Where are you going, Mom?” I’d ask. “Nowhere,” she’d reply with a smile. She wasn’t dressing for approval or applause – she simply believed every day deserved her best. And she was magnificent.
Her heart, though, was her greatest masterpiece. She could not walk past a child in need without stopping. If she saw a child on the street – without shoes, without food, without warmth – she’d drop everything to dress them, feed them, hold them. It didn’t matter if they were strangers. They were cold, and she had warmth to give. They were hungry, and she had food to share. She cried when she saw suffering, not just tears – she felt it deep in her bones. And she did everything in her power to make the world a little softer for someone else.
She Taught Me to Believe in Abundance
Above all, my mother taught me how to believe. “God has an abundance in His treasure box,” she’d say. “Keep your heart clean, and ask.” I was raised with this unshakable faith – that if my heart was pure, if I worked hard and asked with sincerity, there would always be enough. She believed in abundance even when she had little, gave even when she barely had enough for herself, and saw possibility where others saw limitation. That belief shaped me, carried me, gave me the courage to dream bigger and step forward with faith instead of fear.
She also believed in love with her whole heart. She fell in love with my husband before I did – before she even met him. Hearing me speak of him, she saw what I couldn’t yet name. And when they finally met – long before we were even in a relationship – she looked him in the eye and asked, “What is your mother’s name?” Why? Because she was ready to ask for his hand in marriage for me. Not a word of commitment had passed between us, but she knew what was to come. That was her magic.
She Left With Her Song Still Inside Her
But life is not always kind to us. In July 2004, just weeks before her 56th birthday, my mother lost her battle with cancer. She never saw my twins, the homes I’ve lived in, the places I’ve been. But every step I take, she walks with me. Every risk I dare, I hear her whisper, “Go, my daughter. The world is yours.” Every time I stand my ground, refusing to let the world define my place, I honor her.
To the Women Who Move Mountains
On this International Women’s Day, I honor my mother – the most ambitious woman I’ve ever known. And I honor every woman who has built something from nothing, who has worked with hands the world refused to see, who has kept moving forward not because the path was easy, but because she had no other choice. This one is for you, Mom. And for every woman who has dared to rise.
If You Still Have Your Mother, Hold Her Close
If you’re lucky enough to still have your mother, give her a hug today. Call her. Tell her you love her. Sit with her, listen to her stories – even the ones you’ve heard a hundred times. Because one day, you’ll ache for just one more phone call, one more hug, one more moment to hear her voice. And if she’s no longer here, know she never truly left. She’s in you – in the way you love, the way you build, the way you rise.
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