It was not too long after returning from Iraq and I had just learned via my doctor at the VA hospital that I was infertile. Her words stung. I had a miscarriage in 1991. This combo left me feeling incomplete. I would never give birth to a child of my own. Motherhood, a secretly coveted title with access to privilege, allows women to navigate life with a cache of insight, superpower, and superior multi-tasking methodology.

I do not envy mothers; I adore them.

When a woman tells me she is a mother, my internal gears do something. She immediately scores multiple points. I also simultaneously hold her in higher regard and expectations.

I do not, however, expect her to be perfect.  The glowing often overlooked attribute of a mother is that a mother is always learning. Whether she chooses to or not.  Many of my closest friends have inarguably been exemplary in demonstrating motherhood.  They handled losses. They improved their family’s financial situation for the better. They instilled in their child or children profound values. This has been a joy to witness.

When I consider advice, their insight is always heavily considered.

Because I align privilege with honor, motherhood is no exception. Wasting time on seeing privilege only via color, is probably why many may disagree. But if we could learn to adjust the cultural lens and consider the impact a mother has on her child, her family, and society. Without being judgmental, bad mothering is cringe-worthy but when it is demonstrated with love, discipline, accountability, and guiding principles that benefit mankind, it is noticeable. It is appreciated.

A mother’s love is her superpower.

If you felt the love of your mother or a mother figure, you know exactly what I am talking about. I knew. She especially loved me.  My mother’s touch or closeness would settle me down. If she was alright and near, I was fine. But her disturbances, anguish, and pain that seeped out sometimes, I felt that too.  The sparkle in her eye always made me giggle and the protection she provided was her way of making sure I would never be comfortable being anyone’s victim.

Her method isn’t madness, but a work of art that should be studied.

Mothers everywhere have developed millions of hacks to keep their families functioning. Not to mention her contributions to the workforce. Creative meals, washing clothes in between 10 other responsibilities, keeping the environment intact, safe, cleaned, and souls connected—-her love at home is glue. And everywhere else, we see her cape that falls below her blouse. Or her wisdom booming through conversations, boardrooms, operating rooms, courtrooms, classrooms, or community centers.  When she falls apart, because of lack of support, society’s foot on her neck, or circumstances, it is noticeable.

We should never accept this.

My womb is not cursed, but I have endured quite a bit, and the result is what it is. I would not trade this journey for another one. And because of my unique experience but certainly not uncommon experience, I support a woman’s choice to be a mother. Or not.