Being a woman is not for the faint of heart.
It's sacred work, painful, blessed, and unrelenting in its intricacies.
First, you're a daughter. Then a sister. A friend. A wife. A mother.
And at every turn, you give a piece of yourself away.
Somewhere between the giving and the surviving, you forget who you are.
That is, if you ever truly knew.
You become everything to everyone, yet no one asks who you are when the house grows quiet and the lights go dim.
And in the sacred duty of holding others together, you quietlyand unknowingly come undone.
For Belinda, the moment it hit her didn't arrive like thunder. It crept in slow, silent, and painfully soft. The kind of silence that sneaks in when everyone has somewhere else to be, and you are left with your ghosts… and the truths you've been dodging.
Today was her 42nd birthday. The house buzzed with its usual chaos: kids scrambling for school, her husband muttering about a board meeting, the nanny asking about the baby's feeder.
She was moving... handing out lunchboxes, wiping a nose, zipping a jacket, planning lunch and everything else.
No one remembered. Not even her. Not until she glanced at her phone while stopped at a red light. A lone calendar notification blinked:
"Happy Birthday, Belinda."
She stared at it, chuckled softly. Not bitterly. Just… tired.
Birthdays had become ordinary. Another to-do lost in a sea of everyone else's needs.
She looked out her window and saw a man rush out of a flower shop with a bouquet and balloons in hand, his smile wide with purpose.
And then, her tears came. Uninvited, Unfiltered and Raw.
She wiped them away quickly, hoping the car beside her didn't notice.
She wasn't angry.
She had four beautiful children, the light of her life.
But in that moment, she wasn't grieving forgotten gifts or missed calls. She was grieving herself. Because she couldn't remember the last time she celebrated anything that was just… hers.
She didn't go home after school drop-off. She drove aimlessly, then found herself parked outside a café she hadn't been to in years. The kind with dusty bookshelves, mismatched chairs, and soft indie music that made the air feel cinematic.
She ordered a black coffee with no sugar and no cream, because she needed something that tasted like how she felt.
There was a time she loved birthdays.Red lipstick, extra sway in her hips, calls, flowers, handwritten cards from her husband... back when he knew she read every word twice.
Back when she was still seen and still whole.
Before responsibility replaced romance.
Before she became just a function.
Wife.
Mother.
Problem solver.
Calendar keeper.
Atlas who holds up everyone else's sky.
The woman who disappeared somewhere in her roles.
She sat quietly, watching couples bicker playfully over croissants. A young girl typed on her laptop next to a journal titled Love Notes to Myself.
Belinda almost laughed. What a concept—being loved, even by yourself.
As funny as the concept was to her, when she really thought about it, it wasn't so funny anymore. When was the last time she did anything just for herself?
When was the last time she existed outside of grocery lists and inhaler refills?
Her phone buzzed. A message from her husband:
"Can you pick up Teri's inhaler after school? I have back-to-backs."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she opened her napkin and wrote.
For the first time in years.
Dear Belinda,
You used to be soft.
Not weak. Just... open.
You loved loudly, wildly, beautifully.
You danced in the living room for no reason.
Cried at wedding vows in movies.
Sang off-key and didn't care.
Now… you're tired.
Your laugh feels rationed.
Your reflection looks like a stranger who borrowed your face but none of your fire.
But here's what I want you to remember:
She's still in there.
The girl who pressed flowers in books.
The woman who once made love with the lights on, fearless and full of fire.
The dreamer who believed birthdays were sacred.
She's not gone.
She's waiting for you to come home.
And she's not the only one.
As she read her own words, they surprised her.
But not as much as the voice from the table beside her.
A silver-haired man, gentle eyes, soft smile:
"Excuse me," he said. "That's a beautiful piece of writing. May I ask who you wrote it for?"
She smiled.
"No one really... Just someone I used to know."
He nodded knowingly and slid a small notebook across to her.
"Keep writing," he said.
"Some of us forget how to feel like us… until someone reminds us."
That evening, she didn't tell anyone it was her birthday.
She cooked a lavish dinner.
Decorated the living room with her favorite flowers.
Even baked herself a cake.
If no one would celebrate her, then she would.
To her shock, her children ran to their rooms, returning with handmade gifts.
Even her husband brought out a carefully wrapped box.
He hugged her and said, "Finally! I didn't know how to reach you. I wanted to remind you… but maybe you needed to find her first."
She smiled with tears dancing in her eyes after hearing him.
Later that night, as they lay in bed, she asked why he didn't give her the gift earlier.
He kissed her shoulder and said:
"Because the best lessons… are the ones we teach ourselves."
Final Thought
Dear woman,
Do not let your responsibilities consume you.
No one denies their weight.
But don't forget yourself in the process.
Because the people you carry?
They still have lives beyond you.
And you?
You still have a soul beneath the service.
In becoming everyone's everything, don't forget how it feels to be loved.
Not for your sacrifice.
Not for your service.
But simply… for your self.
If you've ever forgotten who you are in the chaos of caring for others, let this be your reminder:
You are not just a role.
You are still a woman.
Still worthy.
Still here.
So light the candle.
Pour the wine.
Write the letter.
Dance offbeat.
Buy your own damn flowers.
Because love doesn't always arrive wrapped in arms.
Sometimes… it begins with a whisper from within.
Happy Women's Day to every woman out there. You are always seen and You are so... Loved.