People always raise their eyebrows when I tell them I have 8 kids. There’s usually a pause, then a “Wait, what?” followed by some version of “How old are you?” and finally, “Are they all yours?”
Yes. No. Sort of.
I didn’t give birth to them. I didn’t carry them in my body. But somewhere along the way, I found myself carrying them in my heart. Each story was different – a student I tutored, a girl I met during a volunteering trip, a few kids who had just lost their homes in a natural disaster. One by one, they entered my life. And as if it were fate, we stayed in each other’s lives.
So I became a mom. Not in the traditional sense, but in a quiet, ever-expanding way. I helped cover their school fees, made sure they had uniforms and clothes that fit, and sometimes sat with them over video calls teaching study tips. I sent messages before big exams, picked them up when things fell apart, and stayed on the line when tears came after setbacks. I wrote recommendation letters, and quietly wired tuition payments between meetings without anyone noticing. I reminded them to eat something nourishing, to sleep at least six hours, to call home, and call their parents. And I carried all their worries with me, like a little backpack tucked into my own day. I worried, constantly – but with love.
And somewhere along the way, something inside me shifted.
I stopped seeing success as an individual climb and started thinking about how high we could all go if we lifted each other. I used to think I needed to “make it” first – build the career, get the recognition, buy the apartment – before I could give back. But giving didn’t wait. It just happened. Quietly, organically, in little acts that didn’t feel like much at the time.
I didn’t realize how much these kids would change me. How their dreams would become my responsibility. How their struggles would teach me patience. How their joy would refill me when I was running on empty.
There were moments when I wondered if I was doing too much. When I felt overwhelmed. When I feared I wasn’t enough. But then I’d get a voice message from one of them – excitedly telling me about a math competition, or nervously asking if their essay made sense – and suddenly, it all felt worthwhile.
Being their “mom” didn’t mean I had to be perfect. But it did mean I had to try harder to be the best version of myself. They were watching, after all. Not just what I said, but how I lived. And I wanted them to see someone who was grounded, kind, curious, strong. I wanted them to know that they, too, could grow into someone powerful without becoming someone cold. That love can exist in spreadsheets and grocery lists and scholarship applications. That being reliable is a kind of superpower.
At 26, I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still fumbling, still growing. But I’m not alone anymore. These kids are part of my story now. And I’m part of theirs.
One of them once said to me, “You believe in me more than I do.” And maybe that’s what love looks like sometimes: holding the vision when someone else can’t quite see it yet.
So yes, I’m 26. I’m a mom of 8. And still continuing. Because there’s always room in the heart for one more.
<3 <3 <3
