A woman’s strongest and most fragile side is her motherhood.
And sometimes, life tests both at the same time.
When I came to England, I left my two children behind.
One was fifteen. The other was nine.
From the outside, that decision may look like courage.
But for a mother, there is a thin, sharp line between courage and conscience.
The hardest thing for a mother is not being physically away from her children.
The hardest part is not knowing whether she has left an empty space in their lives.
Every single day, I asked myself the same question:
“Am I doing the right thing?”
At one point, I couldn’t bear it anymore.
I gave up.
I went back.
When I saw them standing in front of me, I felt two emotions at once:
Relief.
And defeat.
But something unexpected happened that day.
While I was trying to comfort them,
they were the ones who lifted me back up.
“You have to go,” they said.
“For us.”
“You can do this.”
In that moment, I understood something clearly:
I had not started this journey with my own courage alone.
I had started it with their belief in me.
And I returned.
When I came back, I was no longer alone.
I carried with me two invisible reasons.
Two responsibilities.
Two lives.
Every piece of good news was received with a bittersweet joy inside me.
In every hardship, I wondered, “What would they say if they were here?”
Most of the time, I thought I was the one motivating them —
but eventually, I realized it was them who were motivating me.
There were many things I endured during that period
that I would never have accepted if I had been alone.
There were people I remained silent for.
Attitudes I tolerated.
Environments I would normally have left within seconds, yet stayed in for months.
Because this was no longer just my journey.
It was a journey I had taken for my children.
And I had to win it.
Not for myself — but for them.
Raising two children is not only about meeting their physical needs.
It is about carrying the character, courage, and future of two human beings.
Knowing that this responsibility rests solely on your shoulders
places a weight on you — the weight of having no choice but to succeed.
That weight is heavy.
But it also turns you into steel.
Some nights, when I lay down alone,
when I placed my head on the pillow,
the silence was never just silence.
Conscience, longing, and prayer would speak at the same time.
One part of me missed my children deeply.
Another part had to remain strong.
Over time, I realized something important:
This process was not weakening me.
On the contrary, it was shaping my motherhood into something more conscious, more mature, and deeper.
Perhaps this is what being a mother truly means.
Being willing to give up for yourself,
but refusing to give up for your children.
During this journey, I also came to understand something else very clearly:
Motherhood is not biological.
It is awareness.
It is responsibility.
It is the refusal to surrender.
When I think about the battle I fought for my children,
and when I see other children growing up without a mother’s tenderness, my heart aches.
Children who grow up without feeling maternal love,
who are left in a corner,
excluded, pushed away, exposed to violence,
trying to hold on to life without protection —
In those moments, I understand something even more deeply:
Not everyone can be a mother.
And not everyone should be.
Because motherhood is not simply giving birth.
It is standing firmly behind a life.
I was away from my children.
But I was never away from my motherhood.
Distance did not weaken us.
It made us grow.
And today, I know this clearly:
I did not fight this battle for myself.
I fought it for my two children.
And I still do.
— Neşe Özdemir
