I was eight months pregnant and completely exhausted when I boarded a tram. As I sat down, a woman entered—carrying a baby and a heavy bag. She looked overwhelmed. No one moved, so I gave her my seat. She glanced at me strangely, but I didn’t think much of it.
When she got off, I felt something wet in my bag. It was a used pacifier wrapped in a note. The message read: “Don’t be a hero. No one claps for mothers falling apart.” I was stunned. Was it a warning? A judgment? I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Then it hit me—she wasn’t being unkind. She saw me heading down the same exhausting path she had walked. That note was a reminder: motherhood isn’t about doing it all without help. It’s about holding on, even when you’re barely getting through the day.
From that moment, I stopped trying to be perfect. I accepted that needing help isn’t weakness—it’s real strength. Sometimes, simply surviving the chaos of motherhood is the greatest victory.