The many faces of motherhood
At 16, I find myself living with my grandmother, not out of choice, but out of necessity.
My younger sister stays with our mother in a small “pabahay,” a house that does not have much but is filled with the love my mother tries so hard to provide. My older sister, on the other hand, has taken on the weight of adulthood, working as a call center agent in the city. We are all scattered, separated by circumstances, yet bound by something stronger than distance.
When I was younger, I thought motherhood belonged only to women who had given birth. I thought it was defined by lullabies sung late at night, by arms that carried children, by voices that scolded, and hands that cooked.
But now, as I live with my grandmother and watch life unfold around me, I realize that motherhood wears many faces. It is not limited to those who give birth, nor does it belong only to women. It is found in sacrifices, in quiet acts of love, in the simple decision to stay even when leaving would be easier.
My grandmother is old now, her hands rough from years of labor, her back slightly bent from carrying burdens I will never fully understand. She has raised her children, watched them grow and leave, but still, she is here—mothering in ways that are different yet familiar. She does not tuck me into bed or remind me to study. Instead, she ensures I have food on my plate and tells stories about a time when life was simpler as if trying to pass down wisdom in the form of memories.
My mother, though far from me, remains a steady presence in my life. She calls every night, her voice tired but warm, asking if I have eaten, if I need anything, if I am okay. I used to be annoyed by her constant worrying, by the way she reminded me to drink water, to eat meals, and to be careful in everything I do. But now, with distance between us, I understand that her love is in those small reminders. Her love is in the sacrifices she makes, in the way she puts my sister first, ensuring that at least one of us stays with her while I watch over my grandmother.
My older sister, though young, has also stepped into a role she did not ask for. She works long hours, her voice strained from endless phone calls, her patience tested by customers who will never know the weight she carries outside of work. She sends money when she can and asks how we are doing here in the province. She has no children of her own, yet there is something motherly in the way she worries, in the way she asks me what I want, and in the way she scolds me when I take things for granted.
And then there is me. I am only 16, still figuring out what it means to grow up, yet already, I feel the weight of responsibility. I stay with my grandmother, not just as a grandson, but as someone who keeps an eye on her, who makes sure she does not feel alone. I run errands, carry groceries, and listen to her stories even when I have heard them a hundred times already. It is a small price to pay for everything she has done, and yet, there are moments when I wish things were different—when I wish we were all together, life had been kinder, and I could just be a child again.
I think about the song “Batang-Bata Ka Pa” by APO Hiking Society, about how it speaks to the innocence of youth and the wisdom of those who came before us. “Batang-bata ka pa at marami ka pang kailangang malaman at intindihin sa mundo,” the lyrics say. You are still so young and there is still so much you need to understand about the world. I feel those lyrics deep in my chest because, despite everything I have learned, I know there is still so much I do not understand. I am still young, still navigating life, still trying to make sense of the sacrifices, the responsibilities, the love that sometimes feels too heavy to carry.
Motherhood is not just about raising children. It is about presence, about sacrifice, about the quiet ways love is shown even when it is not spoken. It is found in grandmothers who wake up early to cook, in mothers who work endlessly to provide, and in older sisters who take on roles they never expected.
One day, I will look back at this time in my life and realize that it shaped me in ways I cannot yet see. One day, I will fully understand the sacrifices my mother made, the quiet strength of my grandmother, the unseen burdens of my sister. One day, I will realize that in these moments, in these responsibilities, in these acts of love, I, too, am learning to mother—to care, to stay, to love in ways that go beyond words.
For now, I am still young. Still learning. Still figuring things out. But if there is one thing I know for sure, it is that love—no matter where it comes from—has the power to shape us, to guide us, to teach us what it truly means to be there for someone else. And in that way, motherhood is everywhere, in all of us, waiting to be seen.
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Khen P Julia, 16, is a senior high school student at Estancia National High School.
