My Mother’s Tears, My Journey to Peace

Peace, to me, was once an impossible dream. I grew up in a home where pain was louder than laughter, and fear was part of our daily life. My stepfather turned every day into a nightmare. He beat my mother endlessly, and when his anger grew stronger, he turned to me. Because I was not his biological daughter, he treated me like an enemy. He would scold me harshly, beat me until I could no longer cry, and call me chokora as if I was worthless. My mother and I lived in constant fear. We cried almost every day, our hearts breaking a little more each time. Sometimes, the beatings became too much, and we would run away in the middle of the night, hiding in the bushes until morning came. There was no peace, only pain and silence.

No one cared about my education. There was no one to pay my school fees. My mother and I burnt charcoal and sold it by the roadside just to afford a little food. Life was hard, but my mother’s spirit was even harder to break. Despite the violence, despite the hunger, she still found the strength to smile at me and tell me that one day, things would be better. I believed her, even when the world gave me no reason to.

One day, after years of tears and suffering, my mother decided that she had had enough. She told me that she was leaving that marriage — not because she stopped loving peace, but because she wanted to find it. I still remember the look in her eyes that day: a mix of pain, courage, and determination. I told her, “Mama, go to the city. Find a job. I will study hard and change your life one day.” Those words became my promise to her, a promise I hold in my heart to this day.

My mother went to the city with nothing but hope. She started working as a house help, washing clothes and cleaning houses to make sure I stayed in school. Life was still tough, but for the first time, there was peace — the kind that comes when pain no longer lives with you. My mother no longer cried herself to sleep. She worked hard, and every coin she earned went toward my education. Her hands grew rough, but her heart grew stronger.

Today, I am in my fourth year at Chuka University, pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism and Mass Communication. Every step I take toward graduation reminds me of her sacrifices. I study not just for myself, but for the woman who gave me everything she had so that I could have a better future. My mother is my hero, my reason for fighting, my definition of peace.

To me, peace means freedom — freedom from fear, from violence, from the pain of being silenced. It means a home where laughter replaces screams, where love replaces bruises, and where every woman can sleep knowing she is safe. Peace means giving girls like me the chance to dream, to learn, and to rise above the scars of the past.

But for peace to exist, something must change. We must break the silence around domestic violence. Society must stop blaming women for the pain they endure and start protecting them. Men must be taught that love is not shown through control or violence but through respect and kindness. Every woman deserves a life where she is valued, not violated. Every child deserves a home filled with love, not fear.

My mother’s journey taught me that peace is not given — it is fought for. It is built through courage, through sacrifice, through choosing hope even when life breaks you. I may not be rich yet, but I am rich in love, strength, and purpose. I promised my mother that I would change her life, and I will. Because now, we live in peace — not the kind that comes from silence, but the kind born from survival, freedom, and unconditional love.

Peace, to me, is my mother’s smile. It is the sound of her laughter after years of pain. It is the proof that no matter how dark life gets, light will always find its way through. And that is the peace I live for, fight for, and write for.