Happy Mother’s Day

From panic to peace: A reflection on growth, resilience, and love

As I lay in bed today with a nasty cold, I’m wrapped in tea, toast, extra limes (there’s no healing without lime and honey!), and the loving care of my two amazing boys. It’s Mother’s Day again—and five years have passed since the first one I spent as a widow and a newly single mother.

It was May 2020. The world had come to a halt. We were all afraid, locked indoors, unsure of what COVID-19 even was. Everyone was suffering in some way—disconnected, uncertain. In my case, I was deep in the fog of fresh grief. Alone. Scared. Broke. Mentally, emotionally, physically—completely raw.

That night, I was lying in bed when my youngest—only three years old—walked in and said, “I have something up my nose.”

I looked. My heart dropped.

A tiny gray LEGO piece. Round. Lodged deep. I tried to help him get it out, but he only pushed it further in. Panic set in immediately.

Is this an emergency? Should I call 911? Is that even allowed in a pandemic? I had no car. No money. No family around. No support. No clue what to do.

I messaged an elderly neighbor, who reminded me that someone in our building was a nurse. Thankfully, she came to help, but despite our best efforts, the LEGO wouldn’t budge.

“You’ll have to go to the ER,” she said.
She offered to drive me there—and to keep my older son with her. That act of kindness still stays with me.

So off we went. My little one, unbothered by the chaos, was having the time of his life in his superhero pajamas. “Mom! The bed moves up and down! I want one like this!”

He was cheerful. I was a mess.
But the wait wasn’t as long as it could have been. The doctors did what they had to do, and soon enough, his nose was LEGO-free, and we were ready to leave.

That’s when the next challenge began.
It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t find a taxi or Uber. Every time I called, they canceled. I was at a hospital. It was the height of COVID. No one wanted to come near.

Could I walk home? Maybe. But not with a half-asleep three-year-old and no stroller. So I waited. Called again. Prayed. Bargained. And then made a mental note to start every future call with, “It’s not COVID, I swear—it’s just a LEGO up the nose!”

Eventually, someone did come. I showed them the LEGO piece with pride, and we made it home. I picked up my eldest son from my kind neighbor and tucked both boys into bed.

I lay down too—exhausted, relieved, overwhelmed—and tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Feliz día de las madres para mí,” I whispered.

And now?

Five years later, I’m in bed with another cold—but everything has changed.

My boys, now older, take care of me. They make me tea, bring me toast, squeeze extra lime, and lovingly scold me for not resting enough.

I’m still a mother doing her best. But I’m no longer alone, scared, or broken. I’ve grown. I’ve healed in ways I once thought were impossible.

And maybe this story is a gentle reminder:
No matter how tough it feels right now, there is always growth, healing, and resilience on the other side.

Happy Mother’s Day—to all of us who mother, in every form that takes.