After giving birth, I moved in with my parents for support. It’s normal for Filipino families to help the new mother, and my parents were more than willing. But when my husband’s family arrived, my MIL looked at me and snapped, “This is nonsense. You can’t just sit here and do nothing all day.”
I froze. My son was only two weeks old. I hadn’t even healed properly, but her words cut deeper than any stitches. My mother stood beside me, her lips pressed together, clearly biting back her thoughts. I swallowed hard, tried to breathe evenly, and didn’t reply.
That moment haunted me the entire day.
My husband, Martin, noticed I was quiet that evening and asked what was wrong. I didn’t want to create drama, but I told him anyway. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and said, “That’s just how my mom is. Don’t take it personally.”
But it was personal. I was hurting, exhausted, and bleeding, both literally and emotionally. And now I had to entertain judgment from a woman who didn’t even ask how I was doing?
The next morning, my MIL barged into my room and pulled back the curtains.
“Daylight’s up. You should be helping your mom cook or sweep or something. You’re not the first woman to have a baby.”
My baby started crying as the light hit his tiny face. My MIL just stood there, arms crossed, like she was daring me to argue.
So I did.
I stood up, slowly, my body aching. “Respectfully, Tita, I’m trying my best. My stitches haven’t healed yet, and I barely sleep. I’m sorry if it looks like I’m doing nothing, but raising a newborn is not nothing.”
She scoffed. “Back in my day, I was feeding pigs, cooking rice, and washing clothes with a baby on my back.”
I didn’t have the energy to compete in a “suffering Olympics,” so I just turned away and picked up my baby. She walked out without another word, but I knew this wasn’t over.
Later that week, things escalated.
We were all having dinner. My dad brought out a big bowl of sinigang—my favorite—and as I reached for a second serving, my MIL said loudly, “See? No wonder the weight’s not coming off.”
The room went silent.
My mom dropped her spoon. Martin stared at his plate. No one spoke.
I felt the burn behind my eyes, but I smiled, pretending it didn’t bother me. I had gotten used to pretending. I took my baby, walked to the room, and locked the door behind me.
That night, Martin finally confronted his mom.
“I think you should apologize to my wife,” he said, voice steady.
His mom didn’t take it well. She claimed she was only “teasing,” that I was “too sensitive,” and that I had “changed” Martin.
“Exactly,” he said. “I became a husband and a father. That’s supposed to change me.”
She didn’t say another word.
The next day, Martin told me we’d start looking for a place of our own.
I felt guilty. My parents were happy to help, but the house was small and we needed space. Plus, I wanted to be somewhere I didn’t feel like a burden.
Three months later, we moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.
Life got better.
Martin helped more than I expected. He changed diapers, cooked rice, washed bottles—stuff I’d seen other dads ignore. He even took night shifts so I could get sleep. We were figuring it out together, just the two of us and our baby boy, Liam.
But as soon as things started feeling okay, something else hit.
Martin lost his job.
The factory downsized. He came home early, holding a brown envelope with his final pay.
We stared at each other in silence for a while.
We had enough to last maybe two months.
I offered to go back to my online selling business—used clothes and baby items—but Martin insisted I rest a little longer. “You’re still healing,” he said.
Instead, he started working part-time at a nearby carwash. It wasn’t stable, but it brought in enough to keep the lights on.
Around that time, I began filming little videos with Liam. Just silly clips—his first laugh, a messy mealtime, a sleepy cuddle. I posted them on TikTok for friends and family. I didn’t expect much.
But one video went viral.
It was a clip of me trying to fold laundry while Liam kept crawling into the pile and laughing hysterically. It hit two million views in three days.
Comments poured in.
“This is motherhood ❤️”
“I feel seen.”
“I’m also a new mom—thank you for sharing the real stuff.”
I cried reading the comments. For once, I felt like I wasn’t alone.
So I kept posting.
Everyday moments. Me crying in the bathroom. Liam’s giggles. Martin bringing home cheap street food and calling it “date night.” It was messy, honest, and real.
And people loved it.
Within two months, I hit 100,000 followers. Then 500,000. Offers started coming in—brand partnerships, diaper companies, baby lotion, even a coffee brand that Martin loved.
I didn’t know how to handle all the emails and contracts, so my cousin helped manage the business side.
Suddenly, we weren’t just surviving. We were thriving.
We moved to a two-bedroom apartment. I surprised Martin with a second-hand motorcycle. We paid off our small debts. I even helped my parents replace their old roof.
But the biggest surprise came at Liam’s first birthday party.
We invited both sides of the family, even though I was nervous about seeing my MIL again.
She showed up with a big box and an awkward smile.
I wasn’t sure how to respond.
After the party, she pulled me aside. Her voice was soft. “I’ve been watching your videos,” she said. “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize what you were going through.”
I blinked.
She looked at the ground, then back at me. “I thought you were just being lazy. I thought you were soft. But I was wrong.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Then she added, “You’re a good mother. A better one than I ever was.”
Tears welled up in my eyes.
I hugged her. Not because everything was perfect, but because I knew how hard that apology must’ve been for her.
Over the next few months, she started visiting more. Not to criticize, but to help. She brought homemade ulam, peeled fruit for Liam, and even did the laundry sometimes.
Martin got a job again—this time as a delivery supervisor for a logistics company. It paid well and offered insurance.
My platform kept growing, but I stayed true to why I started—showing the real side of motherhood.
I posted a video once of my stretch marks and sagging belly, with a caption that read:
“Not a flaw. A map of where my son came from.”
It got shared thousands of times.
I got messages from moms across the world. Some told me they hadn’t left the house in months. Some were battling depression. Some just said thank you.
I started a small support group for moms online. We had weekly Zoom calls. We laughed, cried, gave each other advice. For many of us, it was the only adult interaction we had all week.
One night, a young mom from Cebu messaged me privately. She said she was thinking of giving her baby up for adoption because she felt unworthy and overwhelmed.
I talked to her for hours.
Weeks later, she sent me a picture of her smiling with her baby. The caption read: “Still tired. Still broke. But I’m not alone.”
That message broke me in the best way.
It made me realize how many lives we touch without even knowing.
A few months after that, a TV producer reached out. They wanted to feature our family in a Mother’s Day segment. I hesitated at first—I wasn’t sure if I wanted cameras in our space again.
But Martin nudged me. “You’ve already helped thousands. Maybe this helps thousands more.”
We said yes.
The segment aired nationwide.
My MIL cried watching it. So did my dad.
My mom just hugged me and said, “You made something beautiful out of something hard. I’m proud of you.”
Years passed.
Liam turned four last month. He’s loud, curious, and somehow always sticky. Martin and I still argue over dumb stuff like who forgot to buy suka, but we always find our way back to each other.
My platform has grown, but I’ve never let it change me.
I still film on my phone.
I still cry sometimes.
I still miss sleep.
But I’ve also built something that matters.
Something that says to every struggling mom: “You’re not alone. You’re not failing. You’re just human.”
I don’t share this story because I think I’m special.
I share it because I was once where you are. Tired. Judged. Invisible.
And now, somehow, I’m here.
Still tired.
But seen.
And loved.
The truth is, being a mother doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.
It’s not about spotless kitchens or bounce-back bodies.
It’s about showing up every single day—even when you’re broken—and loving someone more than you love yourself.
So if no one has told you lately:
You’re doing amazing.
And your worth isn’t measured by your silence.
It’s measured by your love.
If this story touched you, share it with another mom who might need it.
And maybe… give it a like so more people see it.
Because every tired mama deserves to know:
She’s not alone.
