Where Love Begins

Before we ever understood love,we were held by it.Before we could speak,before we could walk,before we had done anything worthy of praise —someone chose us.If love means care,then a mother is where it begins.Not the loud kind of love.Not the kind that needs witnesses.But the kind that stays awake while you sleep.The kind that worries in silence.The kind that carries fear so you don’t have to.A mother’s love is the first place we are safe.And maybe that’s what butterflies really are.We talk about butterflies like they are excitement.Like they are romance.Like they are the sign that something magical is happening.But maybe butterflies are something else.Maybe they are the feeling of becoming.Because before a butterfly ever flies,it is wrapped in something small and unseen.Protected while it changes.Hidden while it struggles.Held while it becomes what it was meant to be.A mother loves like that.She is the cocoon.She holds you in your smallest form.When you are fragile.When you are unsure.When you are nothing but potential.She loves you before you are impressive.Before you are successful.Before the world claps for you.She loves you when you are difficult.When you are lost.When you do not even love yourself.That is not butterflies.That is fire.A quiet fire.The kind that burns steadily through long nights.The kind that warms without asking for gratitude.The kind that stays even when it is exhausted.Love comes in different ways.Romantic love may feel like sparks.Friendship love may feel like laughter that heals.Self-love may feel like choosing yourself when no one else does.But a mother’s love feels like home.It is the place your heart rememberseven when your feet have traveled far.It is the voice that echoes inside youwhen the world feels loud.It is the reason you stand tallereven when she is not standing beside you.If love is choosing someone on ordinary days,a mother has chosen youevery single one of them.Through tears.Through sacrifice.Through seasons you may never fully understand.So to the mothers —the tired ones,the strong ones,the quiet warriors who never asked for applause —Thank you.For the nights no one saw.For the prayers you whispered.For believing in us when we were still becoming.And to those who miss their mothers —who carry grief where comfort used to be —Love like hers does not disappear.It settles into your bones.It becomes the way you speak kindly.The way you protect.The way you endure.It lives on in you.Because the greatest proof of a mother’s loveis not just that she held you —It’s that one day,you find yourself holding otherswith the same patience.The same protection.The same fire.Maybe that’s the real meaning of love.Not the flutter that excites.Not the spark that dazzles.But the fire that protects youwhile you grow your wings.And long after you learn to fly,it is still there —burning quietly,steady,unchanging.That is love.And for many of us,it first had a name:Mother.

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