We say a lot to our mothers: “Roti garam hai,” “Main pohanch gayi,” “Sahi chal raha hai sab.” But behind all these daily check-ins, there are words that never make it out of our mouths. Not because we don’t want to say them, but because we never learned how.
In Pakistani households, especially between mothers and daughters, emotional honesty often gets sacrificed for duty, for tradition, for the idea that being a “achi beti” means keeping things together. So we grow up with love that’s unconditional, but conversations that are limited.
This is about those things we never say. The truths we carry quietly. The feelings we edit out of phone calls. The moments where we smile instead of speak.
“Ammi, I’m not okay.”
We say we’re fine because we know you’re already carrying so much. But the truth is, sometimes we’re barely getting through the day. We smile through heartbreaks, through burnout, through loneliness and we never tell you. Not because we don’t trust you, but because we don’t want to disappoint you. We want to be strong in your eyes, even when we feel like we’re falling apart.
“Ammi, I don’t have the answers either.”
You raised us to be problem-solvers. Independent. Put-together. But some days, we are lost. We feel like imposters in our own lives. We’re figuring things out one broken piece at a time, and it terrifies us. We wish we could tell you how much we doubt ourselves, how often we feel like we’re failing.
“Ammi, I wish I could cry in front of you.”
There are so many times we’ve wanted to break down in front of you. Just cry, and not be told to be strong. But somewhere along the way, emotions got labeled as weakness. Vulnerability became something we save for friends or therapists. We crave your comfort not your advice, not your solutions, just your arms around us like when we were five.
“Ammi, I feel guilty all the time.”
Guilty for not calling enough. Guilty for snapping when we’re stressed. Guilty for growing up and away. Even guilty for having dreams that don’t align with the ones you had for us. We carry guilt like second skin. And we don’t know how to talk about it without sounding ungrateful.
“Ammi, I wish you knew the version of me that the world gets.”
The bold one. The creative one. The one who speaks up and stands her ground. But at home, we shrink ourselves. Stay small. Keep the peace. And we wonder what it would be like if we didn’t have to edit ourselves in front of you.
“Ammi, I get tired of being strong.”
Sometimes we’re the strong one for everyone for our siblings, our friends, our own children. But inside, we want to scream. We want to fall apart in front of someone who won’t judge us for it. We want to be taken care of. And we wonder if you ever felt that way too.
“Ammi, I’m scared I’ll become you, and I’m scared I won’t.”
You were everything. Tough. Resilient. Self-sacrificing. But also tired. Silenced. Unseen. We see that now. And we’re afraid of repeating the same patterns, or of losing the parts of you we admire. We want to break cycles, but we also want to carry your strength. It’s a constant tug-of-war.
“Ammi, I want to know you.”
Not just as a mother, but as a person. What made you happy before all of this? What did you give up? What do you still dream about when you’re alone? We wish we could ask, but we’re scared of how emotional it might get. Scared of hearing your truth.
“Ammi, I love you, even when I don’t know how to show it.”
We don’t always say it. We forget. We get busy. We hide behind sarcasm and to-the-point conversations. But in the quietest corners of our hearts, we love you. Fiercely. Eternally. Even when we’re distant. Even when we disagree. Even when we don’t know how to bridge the silence between us.
Why Don’t We Say These Things?
Because we weren’t taught how. Because we’re scared of being too much, or not enough. Because we don’t want to worry you, or hurt you, or open something neither of us knows how to close. Because desi love is deep, but not always spoken. But maybe it doesn’t have to stay that way. Maybe one day, we’ll say it. Softly. Slowly. Not all at once. Maybe we’ll sit together, not as mother and child, but as two people learning to understand each other in a way that goes beyond roles.
Until then, just know: we’re trying. We’re feeling it all. And even in the silence the love is always there. It was never the problem. It was always the silence. And maybe just maybe we’re ready to change that. So if there’s something you’ve never said to your mother… maybe it’s time. Even if it’s just a whisper. Even if it’s just: “Ammi, I’ve been carrying so much. And I want to share it with you.” Because sometimes, the bravest thing we can do for them, and for ourselves, is break the silence. Now go give your Ammi a hug.
The unspoken truths between Pakistani mothers and daughters — love, fear, guilt, and everything we never find the words to say.
