When I first held my son in my arms, the world didn’t pause the way people say it does.
It shattered.

The room went silent—not because of joy, but because of fear, confusion, and questions no parent is ever prepared to face. I remember staring at him, this tiny, warm, beautiful little being, and all I could think was:

“How will the world treat you?”

Doctors spoke in soft clinical tones, offering predictions and probabilities, but beneath their calm voices I heard something louder—doubt.
Everyone expected me to crumble.
Everyone assumed I would break.

But then he opened his eyes.

His gaze was soft yet steady, as if he already understood the weight of the world he was born into. As if he was telling me, without words:

“Don’t be afraid, Mom. I’m here. And I’m stronger than you think.”

From that moment on, he became my teacher.