The Hug I Don’t Remember

When love speaks in different languages

Lights appear where there were none. Homes smell warmer. Families gather. Sometimes awkwardly, sometimes joyfully… and affection finds visible forms. Hands rest on shoulders. Arms wrap around backs. Gifts are exchanged, laughter is rehearsed, and love becomes something you can point at and say, There. That.

These are the seasons of hugs.

Across cultures and continents, the expressions change. Some families hug freely. Some exchange blessings instead. Some touch feet, some bow heads, some fold hands in prayer. Religion, geography, and tradition choreograph affection differently. But the intent remains universal: You matter. You belong.

It is in one such season… watching families on a screen hug, reunite, forgive… that a quiet realisation found me.

I don’t remember my mother hugging me.

The thought didn’t arrive with drama. It came gently, almost apologetically, as if it didn’t want to disturb what I knew to be true: that I was deeply loved.

I remember my mother clearly.
Her vigilance.
Her worry.
The way her concern entered a room before she did.

But when I search my memory for her arms around me, it stays still.

I lost her when I was ten. By the time I was eight, she had already begun slipping in and out of hospitals far from home… carrying illnesses serious enough to keep her away, and silent enough that I didn’t fully understand them then. This was the 1960s, when medicine moved carefully, answers were few, and reassurance was a luxury.

She had married late. She had me late. Doctors were clear that there would be no second child. So all her love came looking for one place to land.

Me.

I never doubted that I mattered to her.
I never questioned whether I was loved.
Her anxiety made sure of that.

She worried about my future the way some parents worry about tomorrow’s lunch. She thought ahead constantly. Especially after she knew she was ill. She understood, long before I did, that time might abandon her before it abandoned me.

Perhaps she hugged me, and my memory failed her.
Or perhaps she didn’t.

Some cultures express love through touch.
Others through duty.
Some through words.
Others through sacrifice so quiet it is only understood later.

My mother’s love was shaped by responsibility.

She loved me by preparing me for absence.
She loved me by staying composed while carrying fear.
She loved me by teaching me bravery long before bravery should have been asked of a child.

In seasons when love is loud—wrapped in paper, tied with ribbons, sealed with embraces—it is easy to believe affection must be visible to be real.

But some love is invisible until time teaches you how to see.

I may not remember my mother’s hug.
But I have lived my entire life inside her care.

Her love did not wrap around my shoulders.
It anchored my life.

And somewhere between memory and meaning, love found a way to hold me… long after the arms were gone.

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Author’s Note

This season invites us to gather, to exchange warmth, and to express love in ways that are visible and shared. For many, that love arrives easily… as hugs, laughter, and moments held close.

For some of us, love arrived differently.

This story is for those who grew up knowing they were loved, even if it wasn’t always shown in ways the world recognises. For those whose families expressed care through sacrifice, responsibility, or quiet strength. And for those who find, years later, that affection does not vanish. It simply changes form.

As you move through this season of togetherness, may you recognise love wherever it found you. In gestures remembered. In absences understood. And in the quiet truths that stay long after the moment has passed.