The weary fate of a life lived “only for the children”
Not long ago, I remembered something from years past—a moment at a psychology workshop. An elderly woman sat in the room, unassuming, soft-spoken, her eyes gentle. When the instructor asked what she wanted from life, she answered without hesitation:
“I just want my children to be happy…”
Everyone nodded. Of course—it sounded right. Almost sacred. Isn’t that how a “proper” mother *should* answer? We’ve been taught that parents—mothers especially—must always put their children’s desires before their own. From childhood, we absorb the image of a woman who lives for her child, sacrificing everything: career, dreams, health. But is such sacrifice ever truly happy?
Men, by the way, rarely answer this way. Perhaps because society grants them permission to have boundaries. But a woman? A woman must be the “perfect mother.” To think only of others, her whole life long. Even when her children grow, start families of their own, she pours herself out to the last drop—as if she has no right to a life of her own.
And what does it earn her? Where in this picture does *her* happiness lie? Sacrifice isn’t always love. Sometimes, it’s self-destruction. To love your children is natural. To care for them, to indulge them now and then—of course. But to forget yourself, to turn your existence into endless servitude—that’s where the trouble begins.
If a mother lives only by her child’s whims, works herself ragged to buy the latest gadget or fund an extravagant holiday, takes on debts, denies herself rest—what does it teach? The child grows accustomed to always getting their way. They learn that the world owes them everything. And when Mum can’t deliver, can’t keep up, can’t give—they’re baffled: *How could this happen?*
We raise egotists with our own hands. And we are the ones to blame. Because we never showed them that love isn’t just about *giving*—it’s also about *boundaries*. We never explained that Mum’s back might ache, that Dad might have dreams of his own, that parents aren’t wish-granting machines.
Then there’s the other extreme—when parents go further still. They live not just *for* their children, but *instead* of them. They choose for them, think for them, decide for them. They give gifts never asked for, believing it the height of devotion. In truth, it’s anxious dependence. Such a mother won’t let go, won’t let her child grow. Because without them, she is no one.
Care shouldn’t vanish, of course. If a mum can afford to send her son on a holiday—why not? But not at the cost of her own tears and sleepless nights. There must be balance. Love isn’t sacrifice—it’s warmth, respect, and freedom.
It’s a sad thing, but even well-off parents sometimes give their children every comfort yet miss the heart of the matter—they never teach them to work. Never instill the drive to earn something for themselves. The child grows used to ease, then collides with reality—and hasn’t the faintest idea what to do. Exceptions exist, but they’re scarce.
All we had to do was teach them: respect hard work, help your parents, value what you have. So that one day, years later, grown children might say, “I want my mum and dad to be happy. I want to take them to the seaside, show them the world they never saw—because once, long ago, they gave it all up for me.”
And that woman at the workshop? After half an hour, she murmured—so quiet, almost ashamed—
“…I’d like to see the sea again. My children go every year—summer, autumn. But me… it’s been so long. My husband and I went. When we were young. Feels like another life.”
The trouble is, that “other life” was her *only* one. And it slipped away, lost in the shadow of someone else’s happiness.