Contest: A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words "No Love Other Than A Mother's Love"

_Image

In the picture, a mother rhino walks slowly but with purpose, steadily and calmly. Her little one follows closely behind, carefully placing its feet where she just stepped, trying to mirror her every move. The area around them looks quiet, peaceful. No fences, no signs of people. No houses or passing cars. Just a dusty path that stretches through open land, and a kind of stillness you don’t get in everyday life.

From a distance, it seems completely calm. You’d almost think they were just out for a walk. But the more you look, the more you realize the mother isn’t relaxed. She’s alert. Focused. There’s no one else with them, yet she keeps her place in front, scanning the way ahead. That position says everything; she’s protecting her baby. She’s not strolling, she’s guarding. Watching every step, making sure the ground is safe before her calf walks on it.

There’s something deeply moving about it. Almost sacred. In this wide, quiet stretch of land, these two animals move slowly, completely undisturbed. It’s a powerful image. They look free, strong, and peaceful all at once. But even in that peace, there’s tension—not fear, but readiness.

The mother looks calm, but her eyes never stop moving. She knows that silence can be deceptive. She knows danger doesn’t always come with sound or warning. It could be anywhere, hidden behind a tree or waiting just beyond the bend in the path. And so she stays alert because her baby is depending on her.

That’s how mothers are in the wild. Always guarding, always ready. Seeing that image, it instantly felt familiar. Because in some ways, I’ve lived that too.

When I was expecting my first child, my husband accepted a job offer in Japan. It was a big move, one we talked about over and over, because we both knew it would mean a lot for his future and, hopefully, ours too. It wasn’t easy to say yes... We talked about it for weeks. We both knew how hard it would be to be apart, especially during those first months.
But it was the right choice, even though it meant I’d be giving birth without him there. So when the time came, it was just me and the baby. And honestly, those early months were some of the hardest I’ve ever experienced. Waking up every couple of hours to feed him, learning how to swaddle, trying to understand what each cry meant. Doing all of that on my own felt overwhelming.

I didn’t have the luxury of saying, “You take this one, I need a break.” Every decision, every worry, every tiny moment was mine to handle. I had to be the one to stay calm, to be steady, to keep him safe and comfortable, even when I was running on fumes. I didn’t have time to fall apart, or even really to reflect on how hard it all was in the moment. I had someone depending on me entirely. And that responsibility doesn’t leave room for anything else. I carry that instinct with me. If I had my way, he’d never leave sight, I would. My mind is constantly on high alert when he’s with me. If he so much as sniffles or rubs his eyes too much, my brain starts running through possible causes, worst-case scenarios, and what I can do to fix it.

He still can’t talk yet, so I spend a lot of time guessing... where it hurts, what’s bothering him if he’s tired or hungry or coming down with something. Hard? maybe. But it's the only way I've ever known. That kind of worry just comes with being a parent. You hold it together because falling apart is not allowed. I knew exactly what it cost.

Just like the mother Rhino, in her constant awareness. The way she kept herself between her baby and whatever might be waiting up ahead. That’s exactly what it felt like during those early days, being the only one standing between my child and the unknowns. There’s something about motherhood that defies explanation. It wasn't just love. It wasn't only love, though love was always there, steady at the core. But a kind of watchfulness, endurance, and intuition.

It’s about waking up every day and doing everything you can to keep another human being safe, even when you’re exhausted, scared, or unsure of what you’re doing. It’s not easy, but you’ll do everything for your child. Even when it’s hard, you endure. Every decision now includes them. It’s no longer just about you. A mother must lead, stay strong, and always prioritize her child. And the thing is, you don’t always get recognition for it. No one sees the little things you do every hour of the day. But you do them anyway because that’s what it means to care for someone so deeply.
She gives, even when there's nothing to give.

The image of that mother rhino stayed with me long after I saw it, not because it was beautiful, though it was, but because it said something true. Unspoken, but deeply felt. It told a story I recognized. A story I’ve lived. And I think many other parents, especially mothers, would feel the same way. That's the real kind. The kind that doesn't need an audience. The kind that survives. It’s not dramatic or loud. It doesn’t ask for praise. That's the real measure, not how you shine but how you endure.

Whether you’re raising your child in the wild or in a small apartment far from home, the instinct is the same: keep them close. Stay alert. Stay ready. That’s what I saw in the rhino. That's the stuff that matters. The rest is noise. Especially on the harder days, when I feel stretched thin or unsure of what comes next, I remember that image. That quiet road. That steady walk. That constant, protective love. Because no matter where we are or what we’re going through, that kind of love doesn’t need to be explained. It speaks for itself.