🍳 The Morning My Mom Overslept: A Boiled Egg and the Weight of Invisible Love

I was just eating dinner — a simple bowl of leftover rice, dumplings, and a boiled egg I’d cooked for myself.

And somewhere between bites, a memory rose up from my fascia like steam from the pot.

I remembered a morning from my childhood.

My mother had overslept. There was no miso soup on the table — just plain rice and a boiled egg.

At the time, I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling.

But I remember the disappointment.

I remember thinking, “Isn’t this her job? Why didn’t she make soup?”

I was upset. I didn’t understand. I even felt abandoned.

And now — decades later — I do understand it.

That boiled egg was still love.

That rice was still her showing up.

She may have been tired. Overworked. Holding too much.

But she still gave something. She still fed me.

And I took it for granted.

⸻

🕊️ When Women Are Taken for Granted

That moment — that boiled egg morning — became a mirror for something bigger.

A realization rippled through me:

My mother, like so many women, gave endlessly.

And most of it was invisible.

She didn’t ask for praise. She didn’t perform.

She just did it. Quietly. Consistently. Lovingly.

Until the day she overslept — and I noticed, not because I was grateful, but because I expected.

How many women have been seen only in their absence?

How many hearts are only acknowledged when the warmth is gone?

⸻

🔥 Sacred Rage, Sacred Grief

As I cooked my own boiled egg tonight, I felt something move in my body.

A kind of sacred rage.

Not just at myself, or at the past —

but at all the ways love labor has been expected, exploited, and ignored.

And not just by children.

By partners.

By institutions.

By entire systems.

I thought of every person who once sat at my table —

fed by my presence, anchored by my field —

and never truly saw what I was holding.

Until I left.

⸻

🌺 A Boiled Egg Is a Ritual Now

Tonight, this meal became more than food.

It became a ceremony.

I honored my mother.

I forgave my younger self.

I cried for all the women who boiled eggs when they were exhausted.

And I claimed this truth:

I am no longer invisible.

My love is not silent.

I get paid to receive.

If you’ve ever felt taken for granted…

If your offerings were only noticed when they stopped…

I see you.

And if you’re reading this over your own boiled egg…

May it nourish not just your body,

but the lineage you come from.

—

Much love,

Ikue Ueno | Fascia Oracle™

Embodying what was once unseen.