Amid all these feminisms, which one dares to stand up for mothers?
Ever since someone officially used the word “feminism”—or since a woman dared to say “this isn’t fair” and was ignored, as usual—the world has been changing. Many women (in a few countries) have gained “rights,” access, and spaces. Indeed, in some countries, women can vote, have a bank account, study, and even divorce. We can—and I include myself—at least in certain parts of the world, live with minimal autonomy. But in this undeniable progress, many things have also been left behind.
Feminism is not, and has never been, a homogeneous block. Women who think—those who really think, not those who merely repeat slogans—cannot all agree. And that’s a healthy sign. But there are also silences that can no longer be disguised as strategy or respect for diversity. There are uncomfortable topics—forgotten, deliberately omitted. One of these is the figure of the mother.
Not the mother idealized by patriarchal culture, the one used as a pedestal for men to declare themselves exemplary sons, nor the other one through whom men have children. Not the martyr mother, sanctified through suffering and self-denial. I’m talking about the real mother. The one who raises children with or without a partner, with or without a job outside the home, with desire or even without having planned it. The one who makes mistakes and pays the price. The one who wears down her health. Who loves with visceral depth. The one who feels something switch on inside her when her baby looks up from her chest. The one who applauds every small achievement. Who takes mental snapshots as her children play. Who exchanges tips with other mothers on how to sleep better, rest a bit more, soothe a crying child, get rid of lice, or chase away fears. The one who looks in the mirror and no longer recognizes herself, because motherhood transforms the body, the mind, and an entire life. That mother who loves, who raises, who sees—and precisely because of that, disrupts every narrative. Because she doesn’t fit as an idol or as a victim. Because she has a body, a voice, and memory.
Because feminisms—in many of their dominant versions—have developed their narratives despite motherhood. Autonomy has been glorified; the bond has been silenced. In many feminist circles, being a mother is viewed as a problem, an obstacle, a regression. There’s a fight for the right to abort, but not for the right to give birth well. The right to choose not to have children is loudly defended, but those who choose to have them under less-than-ideal conditions are ignored. Care work still holds no economic or political value. Child-rearing doesn’t count, doesn’t promote, doesn’t bring prestige. Being a mother isn’t empowering enough—unless it’s stylishly packaged as a personal success story. It’s easier to celebrate the woman who breaks the glass ceiling than the one raising children alone, working two precarious jobs, and surviving without a support network.
In consumer feminism, empowerment is measured in products: designer strollers, mindfulness courses for babies, pastel-covered self-help books. If you can pay for validation, then your motherhood is valid. If not, you’re on your own. Public policies still treat childcare as a favor, not as a State obligation. Nurseries, parental leave, postpartum support—these are temporary patches, dependent on whichever government is in power. There are no guaranteed structures. And when a mother needs concrete help, the famous sisterhood dissolves into vague speeches, academic theory, and so-called empowerment workshops where the psychologist is paid with public funds, and the mother is treated like she’s mentally impaired—and sent home without so much as a diaper.
I repeat: poor, single, racialized mothers are treated as social cases, not political subjects. And this isn’t just serious—it’s gravely serious. Because when a judge, a social worker, or a psychologist decides that a house with leaks or an emotional crisis equals an “unfit environment,” machinery kicks in to rip children from their mothers—without a real trial, without defense, without compassion. Sometimes, poverty is the only crime. And institutional feminism—with exceptions—is conspicuously absent in those courtrooms. No panels, no campaigns, no trending topics. Why? Because it doesn’t look good. Because it doesn’t earn likes. Because defending a poor, screaming mother isn’t useful or sexy.
And then there are surrogate mothers. The dominant narrative says: “She does it voluntarily.” But no one explains why that “voluntary” choice almost always comes from necessity. Gestation becomes a service, and the baby a product delivered to adult desire. The woman who gestates isn’t a mother, they say, just a “vehicle.” And parts of feminism stay silent. Or worse—justify it. As if criticizing the commodification of women’s bodies were somehow conservative. As if saying “this hurts the baby” were backward. As if every choice were truly free just because a contract was signed. Since when is consent given under precarity considered liberating? And who cares about the baby who will wait weeks to hear its mother’s heartbeat again? Almost no one, apparently.
The mother is the one who gestates. If you don’t know, children do. They know who their mother is. They know the voice of the one who carried them in her womb.
The same happens with child mothers. In many countries, a girl can legally marry with her parents’ consent—which is to say, abuse is legalized. And when that girl becomes pregnant, her motherhood is not mentioned. She becomes a statistic. And global feminism, too busy avoiding the appearance of moral imperialism, stays silent to avoid “imposing Western values.” God forbid that denouncing pedophilia might be mistaken for colonial arrogance. Meanwhile, those girls give birth quietly and are left out of the narrative.
Obstetric violence is another issue ignored by those who criticize patriarchy but never the doctor—male or female—who plays God while shouting “Push!” like they’re hosting a reality show. Mothers of children with disabilities, chronic illnesses, or special needs live completely outside any agenda. They’re not included in mental health debates or in statistics on caregiving burdens. They don’t even have hashtags.
The myth of the superwoman—who does it all effortlessly—has done more damage than many declared enemies. You're expected to work as if you had no children and raise children as if you had no job. To be an entrepreneur. To meditate. To publish your experiences filtered and branded. But real motherhood doesn’t fit on Instagram. It doesn’t sell.
Legal, safe, and free abortion may be a necessary achievement for some women, but it cannot be the only conversation about motherhood. The message cannot be: “If you chose to have the child, now you're on your own.” Mothers cannot become an uncomfortable, almost illegal shadow in campaigns that prefer to speak of “pregnant people” rather than actual, birth-giving women—with bodies, needs, and stories. It can’t be that defending the right not to be a mother is progressive, while defending the right to be one—well, supported, and with dignity—is considered conservative.
This is not an attack on feminisms. It is a demand that they look further. Salon feminists need to take off their class, aesthetic, and academic glasses. They must understand that without mothers, there is no future. That we are not collateral damage of emancipation, nor the inevitable result of poor contraceptive planning. That we are not angels, nor monsters, nor martyrs. We are women. Political subjects. And we are tired of being left out of the conversation.
A feminism that cannot look at women who have given birth is not incomplete—it’s convenient. And convenience has never been revolutionary.
Isabel Salas
