I Never Intended to Write About This: A Glimpse Into the Life of a Refugee Mother

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You know, I really didn’t plan on sharing this story. I thought I could just quietly observe the incredible sacrifices people make for a cause that matters. I wanted to help in whatever tiny way I could and then retreat back to my daily life—until the next time, at least. But now, I can’t seem to shake it off. I find myself waking up at odd hours, haunted by their faces—those tired eyes, the bright smiles, the tears, the fear, and the gratitude.

It all began during dinner with my neighbors. After a long summer apart, we were excited to reconnect and share stories about our lives. But soon, our conversation took an unexpected turn. I could tell they were feeling the same heaviness I felt—while life around us carried on, there was this overwhelming weight on our hearts. Even when we tried not to talk about it, the realities of refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq, desperately trying to find safety, loomed large.

We had read about the situation in articles and on social media, but listening to our neighbors share their experiences at the train station where they volunteered was eye-opening. They spoke with such passion about the families they encountered, and I was completely drawn in. When they invited me to join them, I was hesitant but knew I couldn’t refuse.

As I nervously waited for my husband to return from his first trip to help, I questioned my purpose there. What could I possibly offer that others hadn’t already? Then I heard whispers about a family arriving with small children.

I looked up and saw them struggling across the platform, exhausted and nearly collapsing onto the hard floor. The mother carried a tiny baby—likely born during their harrowing journey—and her other three children clung to her, one already asleep on their only backpack. In that moment, I recognized her. I hadn’t seen her before, but I understood the anguish etched on her face. I saw the tears in her eyes and realized her children were both her burden and her joy. She wanted to rest but needed them close by, even if she couldn’t voice it.

When her youngest whimpered beside me, I offered to pick her up and lay her beside her mother. I noticed the gratitude in the mother’s eyes as I took her baby in my lap. It felt surprisingly heavy and awkward, but I could see how anxious she was to hold him again. When she finally embraced him, burying her face into his neck and showering him with kisses, I saw her smile for the first time. It was a tender, exhausted love that I recognized all too well.

Just recently, my own son, Max, has been feeling under the weather and needing me every moment. For three days, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight, even for the bathroom! I had hoped to take my older kids to church for a break, but when I tried to leave, Max clung to me, shaking and sobbing. I realized that as much as I needed that time away, he needed me more. Sometimes, love is easy, but often it’s an exhausting kind of devotion that leaves you feeling spent yet fulfilled.

That night at the train station, I saw a reflection of my own struggles in that mother’s eyes. I could empathize without her saying a word. She just needed a moment of relief, a helping hand, and I understood that everything she did was for her children, even if it was breaking her in the process.

I felt a wave of compassion wash over me, realizing how human we all are, regardless of where we come from or what we face. It made me grateful for my circumstances, yet painfully aware of how thin the line is between comfort and hardship.

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In summary, my experience with that refugee mother reminded me of the universal struggles and joys of motherhood. It’s a challenging yet beautiful journey, and while our circumstances may differ, our love for our children binds us together.