My mother is the kind of woman hell fears. She does not walk through life unnoticed—she is a force, a fire, a relentless fighter for what is right. She stands for the vulnerable, speaks for the silenced, and loves without limits. Darkness does not touch her without consequence.
She carries wounds this world cannot see, scars from battles most will never understand. But she never wavers. She never backs down. She faces the monsters head-on, unflinching, unafraid. And though life tries to break her, she stands, over and over again.
One day, when she leaves this world, I know hell itself will let out a breath of relief. Because she will be out of the fight. Because her war will finally be over. Because one less warrior will stand in the way.
But what hell doesn’t count on is me. My sister and everyone who my mom taught, touched and laid hands on.
She is leaving behind more than memories—she is leaving a fire in my bones, a battle cry in my heart. She is teaching us how to fight, how to stand, how to love so fiercely that even the darkest places have no choice but to tremble.
And so I will keep swinging. Keep speaking. Keep standing. Because my mother is not raising me to go quietly. She is raising me to make a difference. To make hell nervous. To fight until my last breath, just as she does.
And when my time comes, I pray the darkness rejoices once more—because it will mean I, too, am finally out of the fight.
B🤍
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