There are days when I sit quietly on the edge of my bed, staring blankly into a ceiling that doesn’t blink—because if it did, it would weep with me. Days when breathing feels like work, and existing is a burden I didn’t apply for. Days when silence becomes deafening, louder than the most chaotic market back home. Days when even prayer feels like a foreign language I once knew but forgot how to speak fluently.
That day, I picked up my phone and dialed home.
Not because I had news to share.
Not because I had found the breakthrough we all hoped for.
But because I was breaking.
Because I needed to hear the one voice that could hold me together without touching me, Mama’s.
“Hello?”
Her voice still had that calm authority, like a healing balm mixed with a firm warning that I was not raised to crumble.
“Mama… it’s me.”
That’s all I could say. The rest of my words were stuck behind a barricade of emotions and fatigue.
She didn’t rush me.
She never does.
She knows that in my silence, a war is being fought.
We left home to feed home. That was the promise.
That was the deal.
But life has a funny way of turning tables you didn’t even sit at.
Now, it feels like home is feeding us instead.
Feeding us hope when the world starves us of opportunity.
Feeding us courage when the cities we thought held our dreams, only hand us debts, disappointment, and dark days.
Feeding us prayer when our own voices are hoarse from shouting into the void.
Some nights I lay awake, staring into the dark, whispering to God or whoever is on duty in the heavens, asking:
“Why does it feel like I’m running on a treadmill of expectations and still going nowhere?”
We smile in pictures.
We answer “I’m okay” when we’re not.
We show up to jobs that drain us, live in rooms that cage us, eat meals that barely satisfy us, not because we love it, but because there’s no other way.
Because going back is shame.
And going forward is pain.
But staying is death.
You ever feel like life handed you a map with no directions?
You’re just out here… navigating potholes with a paper boat.
Fighting invisible battles.
Choking on your own dreams.
Pretending.
Surviving.
Not thriving.
But Mama’s voice.
It reminds me who I am.
She says,
“Victor, don’t let the world teach you to hate your journey. You are still walking, even if it feels like crawling. And God never promised speed, just grace.”
And that day, just like every other, she saved me.
No, she didn’t send money.
No, she didn’t offer solutions.
But she reminded me that I am not a failure.
That my worth is not tied to my paycheck, visa, title, or location.
That rest is not weakness.
That trying again tomorrow is still bravery.
I hung up the call, but I didn’t hang up on life.
That day, I didn’t win.
But I didn’t lose either.
I lived.
And sometimes, that’s all we need to do until better days find us.
So to everyone out there carrying invisible loads, fighting unseen wars, and smiling through shattering pain—
You are not alone.
You are not weak.
And even if you feel stuck, you are still becoming.
Call home if you need to.
Call someone.
Call your soul back.
Because even on the days you feel most lost, there’s still something or someone—rooted in love—keeping you grounded.
For me,
That day,
It was Mama.
By Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the Upper West Region of Ghana
#Puobabangna
