I was 8 months pregnant, on a tram. A woman stepped in holding a baby and a large bag. She looked drained. No one moved, so I gave her my seat. She gave me a strange glance.
When she got off, she slipped something wet into my bag. I felt sick as I pulled it out—this woman had given me a pacifier, cracked and chewed, with a note folded around it. The note read: “Don’t be a hero. No one claps for mothers falling apart.”
It stunned me. I didn’t know whether to feel offended or warned. She didn’t see kindness—she saw another woman heading toward burnout, like her.
That day, I realized not every mother wants to be seen as strong. Some just want to survive. And I promised myself I wouldn’t lose who I am, trying to prove I could handle everything.
