When I think of Inay, I picture a woman with a stethoscope around her neck and calluses on her hands. A woman who raised six children while caring for thousands more. A doctor to the people.
There was always space in her heart, in her lap, in our home. She stitched wounds with thread and with laughter. She fed the hungry, healed the sick, and carried the country in her bones—quietly, persistently, the way only mothers can.
Before she became the soft center of our family’s orbit, my mother chose a life of service. Fresh out of med school and newly married to my activist father, she turned her back on comfort and privilege. Together, they went up into the Sierra Madre mountains to join the underground resistance against the Marcos dictatorship.
The Healer and the Artist
In that forest of danger and hope, she became a true doctor to the barrios—treating farmers, rebels, and mothers with bartered medicine and quiet grit. When supplies ran out, she used thread and kindness. When people were broken, she stayed.
Even after returning to the city, the spirit of service never left her. Her clinic was a place of radical equality. Janitors, vendors, actors, and executives all sat side by side, treated with the same care—whether they paid in cash, vegetables, or promises. For her, medicine wasn’t a job—it was love. And love, she believed, is never transactional.
She was the unseen scaffolding behind my father’s art. An artist needs more than vision—they need room to dream. My mother built that room. Without her, much of his sculpture would’ve been like seeds dropped on stone—never taking root.
She let beauty bloom not just in galleries but around the breakfast table, in the way she folded laundry, and in how she made our noisy, chaotic little tribe feel part of something larger and enduring.
The Quiet Force at Home
She raised us with astonishing patience, folding clothes and futures with the same steady hands. She was our gravity and our atmosphere—the force that held us together and the air that let us breathe. Sunday lunches still orbit her kitchen. Her advice, often unsolicited, still lands with the same gentle firmness she used to check fevers or scold teens.
She remains, even now, our first country. Our original government.
Inang Bayan, the Tired Motherland
With another election looming, I find myself thinking not just of my mother, but of Inang Bayan—our weary, bruised Motherland. She too has fed too many on too little. She too has been stitched back together after betrayal. She too has raised children—some kind, some cruel, some indifferent.
This Mother’s Day, let’s do more than offer flowers. Let’s show up for the country that raised us, even when we took her for granted. That means voting with conscience. Saying no to clowns in costume, to influencers with no plans, to convicted liars seeking redemption through power. The country is not a stage. Public office is not a comeback tour.
If we want healing, we must stop electing hustlers dressed as heroes.
The Real Work of Love
My mother taught me that love is labor. It is patient, humble, and rooted in service. Real motherhood—the kind she lived, the kind Inang Bayan still practices—demands sacrifice. It means feeding others when your own cupboard is bare. Binding wounds you didn’t cause. Showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard.
When she returned from the mountains, my mother could’ve chosen comfort. She didn’t. She chose compassion. And we must do the same. We must not grow tired of loving this country—even when it feels undeserving. We must not grow cynical.
This Mother’s Day, let’s honor not just the women who raised us, but the Motherland that bore us. Let us vote not just with sentiment, but with steadfastness. Not just with bouquets, but with ballots. Not just with memories, but with movement.
If we truly love our mothers, then we must also love the country they sacrificed for—and help build a future worthy of their labor, their love, and their legacy.
Chef Waya Araos-Wijangco is a restaurateur, rule-breaker, and heart-on-a-plate kind of chef. Founder of Gypsy Baguio and champion of inclusive kitchens, she stirs up social change with every dish—and never forgets the garlic.
