Born of Grace: The Power Passed Down by Giving Women

In Kenya, we don’t always talk about growing up in a single-mother household. Not because it’s rare—if anything, it’s heartbreakingly common—but because we’re taught to normalize it. To survive it. To tuck it under smiles and strength. So we don’t talk. We just grow.

If you grew up with just your mother, you know what it means to watch someone pour everything they have into whatever they are doing. You know what it means when your mum comes home tired and still cooks.

When she shows up to your school events alone, never missing a single one. When she tells you “tutajikaza,” and somehow, you believe her—even when there's nothing left to tighten.

You also know what it means to not ask for too much.

There’s a wisdom you pick up early in such homes. You learn to watch her eyes instead of listening to her words. You learn the difference between silence that means peace and silence that means worry.

You learn to grow up a little faster than others—because while some children had the luxury to be just that, you knew your mother needed your support, even in small, unspoken ways.

And society? It rarely makes it easier. In a culture where fatherhood is still wrapped in pride and presence, the absence is loud. Not always talked about, but loud. The other parents at school.

The assumptions people make when your mother shows up alone. The whispers. The pity. The misplaced judgments.

But what they don’t see—what they’ll probably never fully understand—is the depth of your mother’s power. She was the roof and the floor. The guard and the guide. She had to be soft and firm at the same time. Had to make rules, break bread, manage bills, and still ask how your day was with a tired but genuine smile.

And there’s love—so much of it. It’s not always spoken in words. Sometimes it’s in the way she packs your lunch before sunrise. Or walks with you to the stage. Or prays over your name quietly in her bedroom. You carry that love in your bones even when you’re too proud to say it.

People love to romanticize the phrase “single mothers are strong.” But strength born out of necessity is not something to glorify without understanding the cost. It’s sleepless nights. It’s hidden tears. It’s choosing your child’s needs over your own dreams again and again.

And yet, from that strength, something beautiful grows—you.

So if you were raised by a woman who gave more than she ever received, you carry a piece of that power. You understand that love can be loud in action, quiet in words. That sacrifice doesn’t always come with ceremony. And that sometimes, one parent really can be enough—especially when that parent is everything.