The Day I Was Born as a Mother

 

Reflecting on “The Conscious Parent” on My Daughter’s Birthday

Today, as I sit with The Conscious Parent open in my hands, I find myself pausing—not because the words are difficult, but because they awaken something deep inside me. These pages remind me of the beginning of my own journey into motherhood: raw, overwhelming, beautiful, frightening, and transformative all at once.

I remember the day I found out I was going to be a mother. It wasn’t fear of the child. It wasn’t reluctance. It was the fear of myself. The fear of whether I was strong enough, wise enough, stable enough to carry a responsibility so sacred and so consuming. I wondered if I could truly take on everything that would come next.

And everything did change.

I stopped working.

I became a full-time mother.

And suddenly, a tiny human depended on me for every breath, every cry, every moment.

Like the book says, infancy is a landscape of constant unpredictability—no agenda, no rhythm, no pause button. I lived that. I breathed that. I remember attending to my child 24/7 with no support system behind me. There were days when I would wonder, What will happen if I fall sick? Who will take care of my baby? Who will take care of me?

There were nights I fell asleep sitting upright, still holding her in my arms.

There were afternoons when eating or going to the toilet had to wait until she slept.

There were moments when exhaustion wrapped around me like a fog, yet somehow, love kept pulling me through.

As I read these chapters today, I realize how true the book’s message is: parenthood strips you down. It removes the illusions you had about control, perfection, and predictability. It pushes you into a space where you meet parts of yourself you never knew existed—your deepest fears, your unspoken insecurities, and also your greatest capacity for unconditional love.

It was in those long, quiet nights and messy days that I learned what selfless service really means. I gave, not because I expected anything back, but because giving became the language of love. Without realizing it, motherhood was shaping me, stretching me, grounding me. It wasn’t just my daughter who was growing. I was growing too.

Today, on her birthday, I recognize something profound:

This is not only the day my daughter was born.

This is also the day I was born as a mother.

Just like me, many mothers walk through their own tunnels of fear, joy, exhaustion, and tenderness. Many of us embrace beautiful moments and heartbreaking ones. Many of us become our own healers, because a tiny human depends on our strength, our presence, and our ability to keep going even when we are unsure of ourselves.

Reading The Conscious Parent today reminded me that motherhood is not just about raising a child—it is also about raising ourselves. It is about learning to be present, to surrender, to soften, and to grow. It is about discovering that we are stronger than we ever believed, and that our children come not to be shaped by us, but to awaken us.

So today, as I celebrate my daughter’s birthday, I also celebrate the version of me who was born the same day—the mother who rose from uncertainty, stepped into a role she feared she wasn’t ready for, and found strength in love and service.

Happy Birthday, my little girl.

And happy rebirth to me—the day I became your mother.