It was a late, quiet evening in an operating theater when I first learned that even joy can arrive with a scar. My son was born through an emergency cesarean section, and I almost didn’t make it. Massive blood loss turned a moment meant for joy into a flurry of dread, beeping equipment, and desperate prayers. I recall trying to stay awake not for myself, but for him. For the child I hadn’t yet held.
That birth was my first major surgery. But it was also the first time I witnessed a new version of myself emerge, forged in pain but softened by fierce love. That moment shaped the beginning of my journey in motherhood and resilience.
Years later, I would have another surgery. This time, gallbladder surgery for cholecystitis, not delivery, brought me to my knees. My gallbladder had turned into a ticking bomb. What followed was not just the removal of an organ but the gradual deterioration of my physical health. Even after the surgery, I wasn’t recovering well. During the peak of the Covid-19 pandemic, I was hospitalized multiple times because of retained stones in my bile duct. Each admission was accompanied by fear: being alone, catching the virus, and not returning to my children.
One of the procedures used to remove the stones resulted in pancreatitis. The pain was excruciating, but the mental health after surgery nearly broke me. The never-ending anxiety, the exhaustion, and the uncertainty of whether my body would ever heal were overwhelming.
And yet. I survived. They were very difficult, but I persevered and survived.
Motherhood, in many ways, prepared me for these storms. You see, when you have children, you know deep down that you need to fight and pull through difficulties in life for their sake.
I didn’t discover the strength I needed to heal, to walk again after surgery, to smile through pain so my children wouldn’t be concerned, in a textbook or a self-help podcast. I discovered it in the middle of the night, as I cuddled my sick kid to my chest and whispered lullabies into the darkness. I discovered it when I folded laundry while nursing a headache, prepared meals on days I couldn’t eat, and said, “I’m fine,” even when I wasn’t.
These healing after surgery experiences left scars on my body, but they also carved new realities in my soul. Motherhood, illness, and these near-death experiences as a mom have transformed me into a different person. I became more intentional and thoughtful. I listen to my body more and take measures to safeguard my health. I became someone who sees life as a sacred space to be protected rather than a timeline to be fulfilled.
Motherhood didn’t just make me a mother. It shaped me into a woman who understands the value of life, of being present, and of holding both joy and suffering in her hand. And when I create today, whether it’s a poem or a work of art, it comes from a deep place. And this deep place understands what it means to unravel and still reassemble into someone wiser, more whole.
If you’re going through your own healing process, if you’ve been sewn back together more times than you can count, I see you. I have been there. And maybe the scarred places in us are where the light pours in.
This blog is where I share those reflections. Stories like these are part of a greater journey that I’m stitching together: of motherhood, transformation, and perseverance. If you’re searching for stories of emotional healing for mothers, I hope mine offers you a moment of recognition.
If this resonated with you, I hope you’ll stay a while. I’m slowly building something meaningful here, a refuge for women or anyone who carries both gentleness and strength in equal measure.
Olivia Writes offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.
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