A Quiet Strength
Blooming In The Ruins, My Mother’s Quiet Strength.
When I think of Mother’s Day, I think of Spring at the Jersey Shore.
Butterflies drifting lazily through the salty air.
Tulips swaying outside the bungalows waking up after a long winter.
The warmth finally returning to our skin after months spent bracing against the cold.
May has always felt like the doorway to summer here.
Memories of my mother.
Of becoming one myself.
But this Mother’s Day is different.
Quieter.
Heavier.
This is the first holiday without my dad, and somewhere between the blooming flowers and warm breeze, I cannot stop thinking about my mom and the ache she must carry behind her smile.
I think about the way my father loved her.
Fully.
Tenderly.
Loudly.
He celebrated her in ways she had never known before him. The kind of love that softened years of hurt without ever demanding she speak about them.
Because before my father, life had not been kind to my mom.
She is the eldest daughter.
The only girl of three children.
A child who grew up too quickly inside a world that demanded toughness before tenderness.
Most of her childhood remains tucked away in silence.
Little fragments slip out sometimes like old photographs caught in the wind, but never enough to reveal the full story.
Only enough to understand this:
she survived things that could have hardened her permanently.
And yet somehow —
she remains soft.
Not weak.
Soft in the way she cares for the ones she loves.
Soft in the way she loves her children and grandchildren.
Soft in the way she continues showing up for everyone despite the exhaustion sitting heavy on her heart.
My mother has a quiet strength about her.
The kind you miss when you are younger because it isn’t loud or performative. It doesn’t announce itself when it walks into a room.
It exists in survival.
In sacrifice.
In the way she keeps moving forward despite every reason not to.
When I was a little girl, I never noticed it.
As children, we assume our mothers simply exist.
But now I watch her with different eyes.
I see the woman beneath the title.
The little girl she once was.
The heartbreak she carried.
The loneliness.
The disappointments.
The fears she swallowed whole so her children would never taste them.
And I realize now that strength is not always loud.
Sometimes it sounds like tired footsteps before sunrise.
Sometimes it looks like all your favorite foods laid out on a table with hours of prep.
Sometimes it is a woman grieving privately while still making sure everyone around her feels loved.
Though I cannot fully understand the depth of losing the first man who loved her most in the world, I know this:
She will carry this grief the same way she carried every hardship before this.
With grace.
With resilience.
With quiet strength.
Until Next Time…
Hi, I’m E — writer, mother, over-thinker, and the woman behind The Hollow Quill. This little corner of the internet is where I pour the things too heavy, beautiful, complicated, or sacred to keep inside. The Journal is for stories about grief, healing, motherhood, love, survival, and the quiet moments that shape us. If you’ve ever loved deeply, lost painfully, or rebuilt yourself in the aftermath — you’re home here.
Follow for more on Social Media!
Hot flashes, mood swings, sleepless nights, brain fog — perimenopause can feel brutal. You don’t have to navigate it alone.
Try the best recipes this side of the internet here —> on Cabernet & Chaos Kitchen | by THQ
