The Women Who Raised Me

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When I think about who I am, I don’t start with my education or career. I start in kitchens, in sitting rooms, in those quiet in-between moments where life was happening without announcement. I start with the women who raised me—strong African women whose strength was never a performance, but a necessity. They didn’t call it resilience. They just lived. Disclaimer: This is a belated Women’s Day post, as well as an advance Mother’s Day one. 

I learned strength by watching it, not being taught it

I remember mornings that started before sunrise. The house still heavy with sleep, but one of them already awake—boiling water, preparing the day, thinking three steps ahead of everyone else. There was no complaint, no dramatic sigh. Just movement. Purpose. At the time, it felt normal. Now I realize it was discipline of the highest kind.

There were seasons when things were tight—I didn’t fully understand it then, but I could feel it. Finances stretched. Priorities quietly rearranged. And yet, somehow, I never felt the full weight of lack. They absorbed it. Took the edge off it. Made sure it didn’t reach us in its rawest form. That kind of strength stays with you. It teaches you that real sacrifice is often invisible.

Love looked like provision, not words

They didn’t say “I love you” often. That wasn’t their language. Love was in what they did. It was in the small treats like bon apetit, hotloaf, even when there wasn’t much. It was in the way they remembered small things—what you liked, what you feared, what you needed before you asked. It was in the quiet checking: “Have you eaten?”—a simple question carrying the weight of care. I learned early that love is not always spoken. Sometimes it is built, daily, in actions that no one applauds.

I saw what it means to carry more than your share

There is a particular kind of woman I grew up around—the one who holds everything together. The one everyone relies on without even realizing it. I saw the tiredness in their eyes sometimes. The moments when they sat down a little longer than usual. The silence that said more than words could. But even then, they got back up. Not because it was easy. Because it had to be done.

It shaped me in ways I am still understanding. It taught me responsibility, yes—but it also left me with a quiet awareness: that strength can sometimes come at a cost. And that the strongest people are often the least checked on.

Resourcefulness wasn’t a skill—it was survival

I watched them make something out of almost nothing. Catering for multiple relatives on a mere civil servants’ salary, squeezing people in a small house. There was creativity in the way they lived. Not for show, but for survival. They didn’t wait for conditions to improve—they adapted, adjusted, found a way. Now, when I face difficulty, my instinct is not panic. It is problem-solving. That came from them.

They felt deeply—but endured quietly

As a child, I thought they were unbreakable. As I’ve grown older, I see it differently. I remember moments—subtle ones—where the mask slipped just a little. A long pause. A distant look. A voice softer than usual. You could tell something was heavy, but it was never fully unpacked in front of us. They carried things we may never fully understand. And yet, they still showed up with warmth. With humor. With presence. That balance—of feeling deeply but choosing not to let it harden you—is something I continue to wrestle with. They made it look natural. I now know it was anything but.

They believed in a future they could not yet see

What stays with me most is their belief in tomorrow. They invested in us—our education, our character, our opportunities—even when the returns were uncertain. They planned in faith. Sacrificed in hope. There is something powerful about someone building a future they may never fully benefit from, simply because they believe you will. That belief sits heavily on me now—not as pressure, but as responsibility.

So, I carry them with me in ways I don’t always notice. In how I show up, take responsibility, especially when things are hard. Because if there is one thing I have come to understand, it is this: The women who raised me were not just strong. They were human—tired, hopeful, stretched, determined. And everything I am is, in many ways, built on what they gave… and what they quietly went without.

I dedicate this post to my late Ma, Grandma, Sisters, Aunts and Cousins.

Bernz

Written by

Bernard Mukasa

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