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Neda Ziabakhsh, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

Before I knew the world, I knew her heartbeat.

Before I could speak, I knew the language of her arms wrapped around me—warm, gentle, sure. A mother is the first love story written into the soul of a child. A quiet poem of sacrifice, whispered in daily acts of care. A soft song of strength, playing behind every smile and sigh.

My mother is not just a woman who raised me—she is the earth beneath my roots and the sky above my dreams. She is the first place I felt safe. The first eyes that looked at me like I mattered before I had done a single thing to deserve it. That kind of love—it is rare. It is sacred. It never asks to be noticed, but it transforms everything.

When she laughed, the whole house felt lighter. When she cried, even the silence wept. And when she believed in me, I could face a thousand storms with nothing but her faith as my armor.

Now, as a mother myself, I understand the weight of her invisible work. The patience that never breaks, the love that never runs dry, the dreams she quietly folded into mine. It is a love that does not need to be loud to echo forever.

To be a mother is to fall in love without end. To watch your heart live outside your body. To give, not out of duty, but out of deep, soul-rooted devotion.

And so I write this, not just as a tribute, but as a vow: I will carry your love forward. I will speak your name in the spaces where kindness blooms.

Because, in the most beautiful corners of who I am, you are there.

To my mother, and to all mothers: You are not just part of life’s story.

You are its poetry.

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