今年的母亲节，对我而言格外不同。
三个月前，我的母亲因脑中风倒下。从那之后，我常坐在她身旁，回想她这一生的模样，独立、自信、倔强却温柔、聪慧而与众不同。她从来都不是一个平凡的女人。
她是自己甘榜里第一位赴美国深造的女孩，并一路坚持完成博士学位。
小时候的我，其实并不真正明白这有多么不容易。对我来说，她只是“妈妈”——那个会叮咛我、纠正我、总是沉稳自信的人。她把坚强活成了一种理所当然。直到长大后，我才明白，原来她早已在许多人还来不及谈论“女性突破”之前，就已经默默跨越了无数障碍。
然而，如今看著中风后的她，我深深体会到：再坚强的女人，终究也是凡人。那些曾经照顾所有人的人，有一天，也会需要别人来照顾。
因此，今年的母亲节，对我来说不仅仅是庆祝，更是一种回忆、一份感恩。
我看著母亲，不只是看著今天的她，而是看见她人生中每一个阶段的身影——那个敢于梦想的甘榜女孩、那个远渡重洋求学的学者、那个养育我的母亲，以及如今，需要别人温柔照顾的女人。
在我的生命里，母亲一直是“坚强”的代名词。她出身平凡，却从不让环境决定自己人生的高度。她走进许多原本并不属于像她这样的女性的空间，坚持追求知识、开拓自己的道路。她不只改变了自己的人生，也为后来者打开了一扇门。
今天，我们常谈“女性赋权”、“机会平等”与“突破框架”。但我的母亲，早在这些口号流行之前，就已经活出了这些价值。
她不需要任何宣传、标签或口号来证明自己的力量。她用自己的选择、纪律、勇气，以及拒绝向命运低头的态度，证明了一个来自甘榜的女孩，也可以拥有辽阔的梦想。
我常觉得，自己来自一个坚强女性世代相传的家族。
我的外婆是一名稻农。在日据时期那个动荡、恐惧、缺乏安全感的年代，她独自抚养我的母亲长大。我常想像，那需要多么大的韧性——在战乱中养育孩子，在食物与安全都无法保证的年代里，当一个既温柔又坚不可摧的母亲。
而在外婆之前，我的曾外祖母，也一定以她自己的方式坚强活著。像许多那个年代的女性一样，她们的牺牲未必被记录在历史里，也未必被公开歌颂，但她们留下的价值，却深深刻在家族血脉之中——坚韧、自律、勇气，以及面对苦难时不轻易倒下的力量。
当我看著母亲时，我看到的从来不只是一个女人。
我看到一代又一代女性走过的路；我看到稻田、甘榜、战争岁月、教育梦想；我看到一个年轻女子离乡背井，到陌生国度求学；我看到一个母亲，把女儿教育成一个敢于思考、敢于质疑、努力奋斗，并且不会因为社会害怕强势女性而缩小自己的人。
也因此，看著如今中风后的她，对我而言格外心痛。
一种曾经独立自主的人，慢慢变得依赖他人的过程，会带来一种难以言喻的悲伤。当那个过去照顾你的人，如今需要你来照顾时，那是一种安静却深沉的失落。
那并非彻底失去一个人的悲伤，但依然是一种“失去”。
你会怀念她曾经的声音、习惯、自信，以及那些最平凡却最熟悉的日常。
然而，在这段艰难时光里，我也学会了一件重要的事：我们对父母的爱，不应该只存在于他们健康、强壮、仍然能够照顾我们的时候。
真正的爱，也应该存在于他们脆弱的时候、行动缓慢的时候、需要协助的时候、身体改变的时候，甚至是记忆与动作已不再听使唤的时候。
母亲节，不应该只是送礼物或说祝福语而已。
它更提醒我们，要用“陪伴”去珍惜母亲；用耐心去理解她们；愿意安静坐在她们身旁，即使彼此沉默，也是一种爱。
因为老去，从来都不是一种负担，而是人生必经的过程。
而这，也让“个人经历”成为了“国家课题”。
马来西亚正在迈入高龄化社会。越来越多家庭，开始面对同样的问题：谁来照顾年迈的父母？我们的居家环境，是否适合长者生活？我们的医院、诊所、公共空间、交通系统，以及长期照护设施，是否已经准备好面对老龄化人口的增加？
我们是否已经在情感、经济与社会层面上，准备好承担“长寿社会”所带来的责任？
我们总爱用高速公路、高楼、科技与经济成长来定义“发展”。但真正先进的国家，也应该体现在它如何对待长者。
我们的长者，是否能够有尊严地老去？照顾者是否获得足够支持？当父母突然中风、失智、行动不便或长期病痛时，家庭是否知道该向谁求助？我们是否拥有足够的社区照护体系、康复服务，以及安全友善的长者空间？
现有基础设施固然存在，但我们仍然可以做得更好。
我们必须重新思考长者照护，不应只是家庭独自承担的负担，而应成为国家优先关注的议题。
照顾年迈父母的家庭，不应感到孤立无援；照顾者也不应独自承受疲惫、内疚与经济压力。
马来西亚的长者，不该被视为“已经完成使命的人”。他们是我们的母亲、父亲、老师、农民、公务员、护士、小贩、家庭主妇，以及一砖一瓦建立社会的人。
是他们，撑起了今天的马来西亚。
我的外婆经历战争，养大了母亲；我的母亲远赴海外求学，养育了我。
她们的坚强，从来不是来自舒适，而是来自牺牲。
如今，当母亲走进人生另一段艰难旅程时，我也终于明白：所谓坚强，并不只是咬牙撑下去。有时候，坚强也意味著愿意去爱、去悲伤、去温柔地照顾那些曾经照顾我们的人。
今年的母亲节，我不只是“庆祝”母亲。
我是在“记得”她。
记得她曾是谁、如今是谁，以及她曾为我付出的一切；也记得那些名字未必被世人知晓，却把勇气一代代传承下来的女性们。
献给所有母亲、祖母，以及所有以看得见或看不见方式养育我们的女性——谢谢你们。
而对于马来西亚来说，当我们走向高龄化未来之际，让我们共同建设一个不会在长者失去体力后就遗忘他们的国家。
让我们打造一个社会——不只是每年一天庆祝母亲，而是在她们最需要的时候，真正保护她们、尊重她们、照顾她们。
因为，在我们成为今天的自己之前，
曾经，有人抱著我们走过人生最初的路。
如今，轮到我们扶著她们前行。
瑟丽娜《不只是母亲节，更是对母亲一生的致敬》原文：Honouring Mothers Beyond Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day felt different this year.
Three months ago, my mother suffered a brain stroke. Since then, I have found myself sitting beside her and remembering the woman she has always been — independent, stubborn in the best way, brilliant, different. The woman who raised me was never ordinary. She was the first girl from her kampung to study in the United States, and she did not stop until she earned her PhD.
When I was younger, I do not think I fully understood how extraordinary that was. To me, she was just my mother. The woman who gave advice, who corrected me, who carried herself with quiet confidence, who made strength look normal. Only later did I understand that she had broken barriers long before many of us even had the language to describe them.
But now, seeing her after the stroke, I am reminded that even the strongest women are still human. Even the women who carried everyone else will one day need to be carried too.
That is why this Mother’s Day was not only about celebration for me. It was about memory. It was about gratitude. It was about looking at my mother not only as she is today, but as every version of herself — the kampung girl who dared to dream, the scholar who crossed oceans, the mother who raised me, and now, the woman who needs the tenderness she once gave so freely.
For most of my life, my mother was the image of strength. She was independent, sharp, and determined in a way that made her stand out. She came from humble beginnings, but she refused to allow circumstances to define the limits of her life. She stepped into spaces that were not always designed for women like her. She pursued knowledge. She built her own path. And in doing so, she opened doors not only for herself, but for those of us who came after her.
Today, many of us talk about empowerment, opportunity, and breaking barriers. But my mother lived those words before they became popular slogans. She did not need a campaign, a hashtag, or a public platform to prove her strength. She proved it through her choices, her discipline, her courage, and her refusal to accept that a girl from a kampung should dream small.
I often think that I come from a lineage of strong women.
My grandmother was a paddy farmer. She raised my mother during the Japanese occupation, during a time of fear, uncertainty, hardship, and survival. I think about what that must have taken — to raise a child when the world around you was unstable, when food was not guaranteed, when safety was never certain, when mothers had to be both soft and unbreakable at the same time.
And before her, my great-grandmother carried her own strength in ways I may never fully know. Like many women of her generation, her sacrifices may not have been recorded in books or celebrated in public speeches. But they live on in the values passed down through the family: resilience, discipline, courage, and the ability to endure.
When I look at my mother, I do not only see one woman. I see generations of women before her. I see the paddy fields. I see the kampung. I see the struggles of war. I see the pursuit of education. I see a young woman leaving home to study in a foreign country. I see a mother who raised her daughter to think, to question, to work hard, and to never shrink herself just because society may be uncomfortable with strong women.
That is why seeing her now, after the stroke, has been emotionally difficult.
There is a particular kind of pain in watching someone who was once so independent become dependent. There is a quiet grief when the person who used to care for you now needs care from you. It is not the grief of losing someone completely, but it is still a form of loss. You miss the voice, the habits, the confidence, the small routines, the familiar presence of the person as they once were.
But in this difficult season, I have also learned something important. Our love for our parents cannot only exist when they are strong, healthy, active, and able to give. Love must also remain when they are vulnerable, when they are slower, when they need help, when their bodies change, and when their memories or movements no longer obey them as they once did.
Mother’s Day should remind us to appreciate our mothers not only through gifts or greetings, but through presence. Through patience. Through the willingness to sit beside them, even in silence. Through understanding that ageing is not an inconvenience. It is part of the human journey.
And this is where the personal becomes national.
Malaysia is becoming an ageing nation. More families are beginning to face the same questions: Who will care for our parents? Are our homes suitable for elderly family members? Are our hospitals, clinics, public spaces, transport systems, and care facilities ready for an older population? Are we emotionally, financially, and socially prepared for the responsibilities that come with longer lives?
We often speak about development in terms of highways, buildings, technology, and economic growth. But a truly developed country must also be measured by how it treats its elderly. Do we allow our seniors to age with dignity? Do caregivers receive enough support? Do families know where to turn when a parent suddenly suffers a stroke, dementia, mobility issues, or long-term illness? Do we have enough community-based care options, rehabilitation services, and safe spaces for the elderly?
The infrastructure exists, but we can do better.
We need to rethink elder care not as a private family burden alone, but as a national priority. Families should not feel abandoned when caring for ageing parents. Caregivers should not have to suffer silently from exhaustion, guilt, and financial pressure. Elderly Malaysians should not be treated as people who have “finished” their contribution to society. They are our mothers, fathers, teachers, farmers, workers, civil servants, nurses, hawkers, homemakers, and community builders. They carried this country before us.
My grandmother survived war and raised a daughter. My mother crossed oceans to pursue education and raised me. Their strength did not come from comfort. It came from sacrifice. And now, as my mother faces her own difficult chapter, I am reminded that strength also means allowing ourselves to care, to grieve, to be gentle, and to honour those who once carried us.
This Mother’s Day, I did not only celebrate my mother. I remembered her. I remembered who she was, who she is, and everything she gave. I remembered the women before her, whose names may not be known to many, but whose courage lives through the generations.
To all mothers, grandmothers, and women who raised us in ways both seen and unseen, thank you.
And to Malaysia, as we move into an ageing future, let us build a country where our elders are not forgotten after their strongest years are behind them. Let us build a society that does not only celebrate mothers once a year, but protects them, respects them, and cares for them when they need us most.
Because before we became who we are, someone carried us.
Now it is our turn to carry them.
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