A Mother's Silent War Between Protection and Perception

There’s a kind of motherhood the world doesn’t talk about. Not the soft, picture-perfect version wrapped in lullabies and gentle smiles—but the raw, relentless, often silent war waged behind the scenes.

This is a reflection of that journey—my journey, and the journey of every mother who has loved deeply. A story of fierce protection, painful misinterpretation, and the quiet cost of loving so wholly that the world begins to twist that love into something it was never meant to be.

I wasn’t prepared for motherhood. I didn’t have the tools, the knowledge, or the clarity. But I had one thing—a vow I made the moment I felt life growing inside me: I will protect you from the world. No matter what. That promise became the core of my existence. I didn’t strategize it. I didn’t read it in a book. It was born in my bones—an instinct that sharpened itself every time I sensed even the faintest threat.

As my child grew, so did the world’s scrutiny. I was seen as manipulative when I was just managing threats. I was called controlling when I was shielding from harm. I was named diplomatic, dual, inconsistent—when all I ever did was try to hold things together while keeping my child safe in a world that had once broken me.

People mistook my deflections for deceit, my silences for strategy. But I wasn’t planning anything. I was reacting—fast, instinctively, like someone who sees fire and rushes to bring water. What I had was not intellect or experience. I had intuition—and over time, it became my sword. My only tool in a life-long battlefield.

And then… something shifted. The very child I fought for, started to see the edges of that sword.

He began to notice my tactics. My tone. My inconsistencies with the world. He saw the armor—but not the intention beneath it. He began to believe what the world said about me—that I was trying to control, to manipulate, to shape him into something he was not. But what he didn’t see was that I was never shaping him—I was protecting him. Not because I didn’t trust him—but because I didn’t trust the world.

This is the deepest pain of motherhood—the heartbreak of being misread by the very one you love the most. He thinks I want to control his life. I only wanted to control the pain that might reach him. He thinks I want him to become like me. I only wanted him to never feel like me. He thinks I am cold. But I had to be cold to keep the world at bay. Now the world has reached him—and used me to hurt him. That is a pain I was never ready for.

I lost something precious: his trust.

Not because I failed him, but because I could never explain what I was doing in a way he could understand. I didn’t have the words. I never sat down and planned my approach—I just acted. I felt danger, and I moved to block it. But now, I am learning that the same sword I used to protect him is the one he now sees as a weapon used against him.

Still—I will not give up.

Does anyone truly understand what it means to carry the weight of this kind of war? They call it fibromyalgia. They call it PTSD. But I was never a veteran—yet I carry it all. I never walked onto a battlefield in boots or armor, and so no one can make sense of my symptoms now. So they say I’m making it up. Its all in my mind.

I fought my wars inside the walls of my home, inside the corridors of my mind. The pain is real. The exhaustion, the hypervigilance, the sleepless nights—they are not metaphors. They are scars. And yet, no one offers rehab for this kind of battle and veteran. No medals, no discharge. Because the wounds I carry are invisible. But they are there. They bleed in silence. They ache in stillness. And I continue—because I have no other choice.

Today, I know I need more than intuition.

So I pick up a second sword: awareness. The ability to explain. To reflect. To speak. To not only act with love—but to show that love.

Because today I know this: My child will not lose what is truly his. And I will not lose the essence of who I am. I am not just a fighter .I am a mother. And I carry within me the strength to protect without being seen, to hold without being held, and to speak—even if it takes a lifetime to find the words.

I have two children now. And each one carries their own world, their own war. I fight each battle separately, respectfully, without comparison. My love is not divided—it multiplies. My intuition adapts. My resilience grows. And I hold both swords. One of instinct. One of intellect.

I don’t ask the world to understand me. I only ask that, one day, my children know this:

Even if I failed in expression, Even if I lost their trust, Every fight I ever fought—was for them.

Always. Without exception. With love. And with everything I had.