Yesterday, as I sat across from an old friend—one of those easy chairs-and-chai sort of friendships that stretch across decades—he dropped a little news bomb between bites of samosa.

“She’s pregnant,” he said, smiling.

“Who?” I asked.

“My daughter.”

And just like that, I was no longer chewing on samosa, but on time itself.

His daughter. The same one whose christening I’d attended, where she’d wailed louder than the church organ. The same one who, as a toddler, had run to me with sticky hands and an urgent need to show me her crayon drawings. The same one whose wedding I’d attended not too long ago, blinking away emotion as her father handed her over to another man’s care.

And now—she’s going to be a mother.

It stopped me in my tracks.

Not because I doubt her capability. No. But because the memory of that little girl is frozen in my mind. And now, she’s stepping into a role that makes grown men nervous. Motherhood.

Now if there’s one thing I’ve observed about women, it’s this: motherhood doesn’t arrive quietly. It crashes in. It comes not with a lullaby, but a roar. A fierce, protective, all-consuming love that transforms.

You think you knew that sweet little girl? Wait till you see her hurl a rolling pin at anyone who threatens her child. You think she was timid? Watch her march into a principal’s office when her son is unfairly punished. You thought she didn’t have leadership skills? Observe her managing diaper changes, cooking dinner, and attending office Zoom calls—simultaneously—while the rest of us need a nap after checking email.

Yes, motherhood transforms. It turns a meow into a mighty roar. It turns a soft, domestic cat into a lioness pacing the wilds of a messy living room, defending her cubs from germs, judgmental relatives, and the trauma of unfinished homework.

Today, on Mother’s Day, I raise an imaginary toast—and a real cup of chai—to every woman who took on this sacred, chaotic, humbling, hilarious role.

To the ones still learning how to hold a baby without breaking into a cold sweat. To the ones chasing toddlers with a spoonful of food and Olympic-level speed. To the ones whose arms ache from rocking a crying child and whose hearts ache even more when that child grows up and walks away. And to the grandmothers, who now smile as they watch their daughters transform into the very warriors they once were.

The world may praise politicians, CEOs, and astronauts—and rightly so—but let’s remember this: without mothers, there wouldn’t be a world to praise.

So today, dear mothers, young and old, domestic and fierce, roaring and tired, I salute you.

Because you didn’t just birth children.
You birthed the world…!

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