The Mothers We Become
- Agnieszka Wolsoncroft
- 4 days ago
- 12 min read
by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft
I was six years old the night I learnt that miracles take patience.
I couldn't sleep. I knew Dziadek was still up – I could see the light under the kitchen door from my bedroom. So I crept down the hallway in my pyjamas, barefoot on cold floorboards, curious about what he was doing so late.
I stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, trying to look invisible.
He had a cardboard box on the kitchen table. A bit bigger than a shoebox. Crumpled newspaper inside. And he was fixing a lightbulb into an old desk lamp, his hands steady and sure the way they always were.
He didn't say a word, but he knew I was there. He didn't say anything because we both knew that if we woke up Babcia, we'd be in trouble.
He finished fixing the lightbulb, took the cardboard box from the table, and put it on the floor. Then he took the lamp and placed it in the corner of the box. He went back to the table, reached to the windowsill, and took three big eggs from the bowl that was sitting there.
He put the eggs in the cardboard box, made sure the newspaper was soft enough for them, and said very quietly: "They don't have a mum-duck to sit on them. That's why they need the warmth from the lamp. If you want, you can sit here and watch. But it means you'll sleep on the floor, on a blanket."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I definitely wanted to be part of it.
Why would eggs be sitting in a cardboard box on the floor and not in the fridge or on the frying pan? Why didn't they have a mum-duck? What did that even mean? And why was it all happening at night?
I opened my mouth to ask Dziadek all those questions, eyes wide, when I saw him put his index finger to his mouth in the gesture I knew well enough: Be quiet.
He pointed to a blanket by the cardboard and I knew he wanted me to sit there, so I did. He left the kitchen and came back within a few seconds with a pillow. He put it next to the box and made a gesture in the air of crossing arms and making a rest for my chin.
I lay down on the blanket, crossed my arms on the pillow, and made a rest for my chin just like he showed me.
He said: "Watch and you will see what happens."
I was so fascinated by the unknown, I almost burst with excitement. But I did what he said. I just lay there still and had my eyes fixed on the eggs.
This was perhaps my first lesson in meditation. In patient observation. In trusting that something meaningful was unfolding even when I couldn't see or understand it yet.
#
For about half an hour, nothing happened, and I started feeling very sleepy. My eyelids felt so heavy, but I was determined to see. Dziadek said that something was going to happen, so it would. I made myself sit up and lie down again several times, so I wouldn't fall asleep.
Another half an hour passed and I was really fighting sleep by now, my head dropping from time to time.
But suddenly, I heard a small noise. Like scratching or something.
Interesting.
I sat up and brought my head closer to watch the eggs. Another scratching noise. And one more after that. The sleepy feeling was all gone now and I was wide awake, waiting for more.
I'd never seen anything like it.
In the next few minutes, the eggs started cracking and I saw a little beak poking out of cracked eggshell. The tiny duckling pushed and pushed. Then, with one final determined push, the tiny duckling broke free completely, shaking off bits of shell that clung to its damp yellow down.
I was sitting there in absolute awe and amazement.
So this is where little ducks come from.
Oh my God, how wonderful.
I felt so happy with joy, I cried.
In the meantime, while I was sitting there too bamboozled to speak, the remaining two eggs cracked and now we had three little ducklings in the cardboard box on the kitchen floor.
I put my palm on the crumpled newspaper and the ducklings came to sit on it. They were making this little chirping sound, and to me all of this was magical and miraculous.
I don't know when or how, but I fell asleep and woke up when the first rooster crowed. When I opened my eyes, all three little ducklings were sleeping tight next to my cheek.
This was one of the most important experiences of my life – not only because it was so special and fascinating for me as a little girl, and let's be honest, tiny little ducks are one of the cutest creatures on Earth.
But years later, I understood something Dziadek was trying to teach me.
When the egg cracks from the outside – by an outside force – life ends.
But if it's broken from an inside force, life begins.
Real change, lasting change, can't be forced from the outside. It has to come from within. Like those ducklings pushing their way out of their shells, we have to find the strength and determination to break through our own limitations from the inside out.
Dziadek's gift that night wasn't just showing me the miracle of new life. It was teaching me patience, wonder, and the art of paying attention. He showed me that the most important transformations often happen slowly, quietly, and that if we're willing to wait and watch with faith, we'll witness miracles.
I didn't know then that I'd need this lesson for motherhood.
But differently than I'd imagined.
#
I am not happy or grateful that I was diagnosed with stage 4 endometriosis at 40. That I had to go through three operations. That I experienced the incredible pain of miscarriage.
But I am so grateful – deeply, profoundly grateful – that this experience prepared me for the adoption of a six-year-old child who needed me to be extra strong, resilient, and empathetic to understand and help her heal from her trauma.
For years, doctors dismissed my pain. Told me it was stress. That I should "just relax and go on holiday" to get pregnant. The medical gaslighting was almost as painful as the physical symptoms.
When we moved to Australia and I finally received proper diagnosis and treatment, I felt a mixture of relief and grief – relief for answers, grief for years of unnecessary suffering.
The miscarriage happened two days before Mother's Day.
That broke something in me I didn't know could break.
#
That Sunday, Mother's Day, I went to work.
I was managing a cafe in Scarborough then. Mother's Day is one of the busiest days of the year – mothers arriving with their beautiful children, families celebrating, the air full of laughter and flowers and joy.
I hid enormous grief behind the biggest smiles.
I took orders. Made coffee. Cleared tables. Chatted with customers about their special day. Watched mothers with their babies and toddlers and teenagers, my heart breaking with every "Happy Mother's Day" I heard around me.
No one knew. No one could tell. I was professional. Efficient. Present.
But inside, I was barely breathing.
When I finally got home that evening, I went straight to bed. Leia and Gizmo – our two rescue dogs – knew something was wrong. They curled up next to me, one on each side, warm and solid and unconditionally loving.
I lay there between them, grateful for these two souls who'd always seen me as their mother. Who I'd loved and cared for and protected. Who loved me back without needing to understand why I was crying.
Sometimes motherhood looks like this. Dogs instead of babies. Grief instead of celebration. Showing up for others while falling apart inside.
And still – still – finding something to be grateful for.
#
Two weeks later, on a Sunday morning, I forced myself up. Grabbed my camera. Drove to Lake Joondalup because I needed to photograph something, anything, to feel like myself again.
The morning was still. Cool. The kind of Perth almost-winter morning where the world feels newly made.
I walked around the lake path, camera hanging heavy around my neck. There was a lone pine tree I'd photographed before – stark and beautiful against the water. I headed towards it, adjusting camera settings, trying to focus on aperture and light instead of the hollow ache that had taken up residence in my chest.
As I approached the pine tree, adjusting camera settings, something surfaced in my mind with devastating clarity.
A memory. Six words from a literature class years ago.
"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
The camera fell from my hands.
Never worn.
The words hit like physical blows. Each syllable a small destruction.
Never worn. Never worn. Never worn.
My knees gave out. I sank to the damp earth beside the lake as something broke inside me. Not the controlled tears of the clinic. Not the quiet weeping in David's arms. But a primal howl of grief that tore from my throat without warning.
The shoes we would never buy.
My body convulsed with sobs.
The tiny clothes that would remain in shops rather than drawers.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see through the tears.
The room that would stay empty.
Hands pressed into cold earth, I rocked back and forth, keening like an animal in pain.
The future erased before it had properly begun.
"Never worn," I gasped between heaving breaths. "Never worn, never worn, never worn."
The words became a mantra of loss, each repetition releasing another wave of anguish I'd been holding back. For weeks, I'd parcelled out grief in manageable doses, staying controlled for work, for David, for a world that expected me to function.
But this – this was the totality of it.
All the dreams I'd carried for ten years. All the imagined moments – first steps, first words, bedtime stories, scraped knees needing kisses. All of it compressed into six words that contained universes of loss.
I cried until my throat was raw. Until my eyes burnt. Until my body had no more tears to give.
When the storm finally passed, I remained kneeling by the lake, spent and empty. The solitude was a blessing – no well-meaning strangers offering comfort, no need to compose myself. Just the pine tree, the water, and the vast sky witnessing my pain without judgement.
"Thank you," I whispered.
In that raw vulnerability, other words came: I am grateful for the brief time I carried life. I am grateful for David's unwavering love. I am grateful that even in loss, I can still feel – still hope.
Slowly, I gathered myself.
And the familiar voice came back: Never doubt Me.
I checked my camera for damage. None. Brushed dirt from my knees. Took several deep breaths.
As I turned to head home, I paused for one more look at the pine tree - standing alone, weathering whatever came, continuing to grow despite storms.
I raised my camera and took one final shot, this one different from all the others.
Because I was different now.
Not healed. Not "over it." But somehow changed by finally allowing myself to feel the full magnitude of what we'd lost.
Light rain began falling as I walked home, matching the cleansing tears that had finally come.
#
Every moment of that medical journey was preparing me for motherhood in a way I never could have imagined.
The strength I developed from enduring chronic pain. The resilience I built from facing repeated disappointments. The empathy I gained from feeling misunderstood and dismissed – all of this equipped me to parent a child who had experienced trauma.
When Anya came to us at six years old, she needed a mother who understood that healing isn't linear. That patience is more powerful than perfection. That love sometimes means sitting with someone in their pain rather than trying to fix it. My medical journey taught me all of this and more.
#
I am grateful beyond words for my adopted daughter Anya, this beautiful, happy little girl who loves her life and has transformed ours completely.
When I dreamed as a twelve-year-old of adopting a daughter named Ania, I couldn't have imagined the reality would be even better than the dream.
Anya came to us at six years old from Thailand, carrying her own story of loss and resilience. The day we met her, I knew with absolute certainty that she was meant to be our daughter. Not because it was easy – it wasn't – but because the love was instant and undeniable.
Parenting a child who has experienced early trauma requires everything I learnt from my own healing journey. Patience from my recovery journey. Resilience from medical challenges. Faith from times when everything seemed impossible. Gratitude for the reminder that healing is always possible, even when we can't see how.
Watching Anya bloom in our family has been the greatest privilege of my life. Seeing her discover safety, stability, and unconditional love reminds me daily why every challenge I faced was necessary preparation. She needed parents who understood that love isn't always enough – that healing also requires patience, consistency, understanding, and absolute commitment to standing by someone through their darkest moments.
Every day with Anya is a masterclass in gratitude. Her laughter, her questions, her growing confidence, her moments of stillness when she feels completely safe – all of these ordinary miracles remind me that dreams fulfilled are even more beautiful than dreams imagined.
Watching her thrive fills me with such profound gratitude for the winding path that led us to each other.
This Mother's Day, I've been thinking about all the women who are mothers in ways the world doesn't always recognise.
The women who've experienced miscarriage or stillbirth – you carried life, even briefly. You're a mother.
The women struggling with infertility, going through treatments, holding hope against hope – you're already loving a child you haven't met yet. You're a mother in your heart.
The women who've chosen not to have children but pour love into nieces, nephews, students, mentees – you're shaping lives. You're mothering.
The women who've lost children – your love doesn't end. You're still their mother.
The foster mothers, adoptive mothers, stepmothers, godmothers – biology doesn't define motherhood. Love does.
The teachers who see potential in struggling students. The aunties who show up. The friends who hold babies while new mums shower. The neighbours who check in. The mentors who believe.
All of you are mothering this world.
And often, you don't even realise the impact you have on others.
You think you're just showing up. Just being kind. Just doing what needs to be done.
But someone is watching. Someone is learning from your strength. Someone is being shaped by your love.
Just like I watched Dziadek with those duck eggs, and learnt patience.
Motherhood has many faces, and every single one of them deserves to be honoured.
This is what I've learnt about becoming a mother – however you become one.
Thanksgiving (Action): Showing up. Doing the work. Sitting on the floor all night watching eggs crack. Going through the surgeries. Surviving the miscarriage. Filling out adoption paperwork. Teaching a traumatised child that love is safe. Making święconka baskets. Dyeing eggs. Being present. Working through Mother's Day with grief hidden behind smiles. Coming home to dogs who love you unconditionally. Mothering however you can, whoever needs it.
Appreciation (Awareness): Noticing the miracles. The ducklings hatching. The love that survives loss. The child who blooms. The strength you didn't know you had. The ways your pain prepared you for purpose. The mothers around you doing invisible work. The unconditional love of rescue dogs who see you as their whole world.
Gratitude (Feeling): The deep, soul-level thankfulness. For the body that taught you patience even through pain. For the daughter who chose you as much as you chose her. For the winding path that led you exactly where you needed to be. For all the mothers – biological, adoptive, foster, chosen, accidental, intentional – who shape this world with love.
When we practice all three together – action, awareness, feeling – we move through motherhood (in all its forms) with grace.
We honour what we've lost while embracing what we've found.
We see the miracles happening slowly, quietly, in cardboard boxes on kitchen floors and in broken hearts that somehow learn to love again.
So This Mother's Day, whether you're a mother who carried a child in your body or in your heart. Whether you're waiting to become a mother or grieving the motherhood you thought you'd have. Whether you mother children or students or ideas or dreams. Or a garden patch.
Whether you're reading this as a father, a partner, a friend, wondering how to honour the mothers in your life.
I see you.
Your love matters. Your patience matters. Your showing up matters.
The eggs crack from the inside. Change happens slowly. Miracles require patience.
But they happen. They always happen.
You just have to be willing to sit on the floor all night, watching, waiting, believing.
With love and gratitude,
Agnieszka
#
If you're mothering in ways the world doesn't always recognise – if you've experienced loss and found love again, if you're teaching children (yours or others') about patience and courage and showing up – you're not alone. Motherhood isn't one story. It's a thousand stories, each one different, each one sacred. Whether you gave birth or adopted, whether you're raising children or shaping lives in other ways, whether your path to motherhood was straight or took unexpected turns – you deserve to be honoured. The TAG Method teaches us this: show up (Thanksgiving), notice the miracles (Appreciation), feel the gratitude (Gratitude). That's how we mother. That's how we heal. That's how we become who we're meant to be.
Come back in two weeks. I'll be here with a story about impact – the kind we don't always see, the lives we touch without realising, the ripples we create just by showing up and being who we are. About understanding that you never know what difference your presence makes in someone else's story. A reminder that your life matters more than you know.
If you wish to know more/read more about my Babcia and Dziadek, click the link below.
Comments