On motherhood, immigration, and the quiet endurance of love

Today, on my only child’s birthday, I am sharing something deeply personal.

This began as a private letter—written quietly, meant to be kept rather than read aloud. Over time, I realized it also carries a story many parents, especially immigrant parents, may recognize. So I am sharing it here, not as an explanation, but as a reflection.

The day my child was born became the most important day of my life. No matter how much time passes, that truth does not change. This year marks the 24th birthday—a moment that invites both gratitude and memory.

Before becoming a mother, my life was steady and uneventful. I worked, I waited, and I watched others build families of their own. I did not know then that my own life was quietly preparing for something transformative.

When I met my husband and later gave birth, everything shifted. Becoming a parent gave my life meaning, direction, and depth. Across cultures and generations, children are born from hope. That was true for me as well.

Our decision to immigrate to Canada was made with sincerity and faith, though the years that followed were not easy. There were struggles, sacrifices, and long periods of uncertainty. While my husband and I focused on survival, our child was surrounded by love, especially under the care of loving grandparents. Choosing stability and love over personal ambition was a conscious decision—one I have never regretted.

Life rarely offers perfect choices. Most decisions are made with limited information, shaped by circumstance and responsibility. I spent many years rebuilding myself in a new country, facing the loss of professional identity and personal pride. This is not a unique story. Many immigrants carry similar experiences quietly, often unseen.

Looking back, I wish I had been stronger, calmer, more composed. I regret the moments when exhaustion and worry were visible. Parenthood does not erase one’s humanity; it reveals it. Before being a mother, I was—and remain—a person learning how to endure with dignity.

Love between parent and child changes shape over time. Sometimes it is close and warm; sometimes it becomes quiet and distant. Even then, it does not disappear. It waits patiently, without conditions or demands.

Every birthday reminds me of the moment my life began again through another life. Whether the day feels joyful or heavy, its meaning remains unchanged.

This post is written for anyone who carries unspoken stories—for parents, for immigrants, for those who made difficult choices with good intentions. It is especially for those whose love was not always visible, but was always present. Some love is not loud. Some devotion is steady, silent, and enduring.

Written with care, and shared in hope that quiet stories are also allowed space.

Thank you for reading

Young Mee, on January 28/2026 3pm, -13 degrees, Sunny