The Quiet Power of Words: A Mother’s Journey Back to Herself by Danuza Silva

There is a quiet lesson many of us learn as women. We learn to hold it together. To soften our pain. To tuck our struggles into neat, invisible corners. To keep moving, even when something inside us is asking to be held instead.

Strength, we’re often shown, looks like endurance. Like silence. Like carrying everything without letting it spill.

For most of my life, I believed that was true. I believed that to be worthy, I had to hide the parts of me that felt broken, my grief, my fears, my insecurities. I thought if I just kept going, kept smiling, kept showing up, I would eventually feel whole.

But life has a way of gently, and sometimes painfully, unravelling the stories we tell ourselves. And in my case, it was motherhood that brought everything to the surface.

I grew up surrounded by loss. I lost my parents and grandparents when I was still very young, and later, the grandmother who stepped in to raise my siblings and me also passed away. Grief was not something distant or unfamiliar, it was something woven into the fabric of my childhood. Resilience wasn’t something I chose. It was something I lived. 

And because of that, I carried a quiet dream with me into adulthood: to create the kind of family I had longed for. A home filled with warmth, safety, laughter, and love that didn’t feel fragile.

For a while, I had exactly that.

I married a wonderful man and we welcomed our daughter, Sophie. She was everything I had ever hoped for and more. In her presence, I felt a kind of wholeness I didn’t know was possible. Watching her grow, hearing her laugh, holding her hands, it softened parts of me that had been guarded for years.

As the years passed, I found myself gently imagining what it might feel like to grow our family. Sophie often spoke about it too, asking for a sibling, always a sister. Her longing touched something deep within me. My own siblings had carried me through life’s hardest moments, and I wished for her to have that same kind of bond.

When we decided to try for another baby, I expected joy. I expected something familiar. Instead, I entered one of the most painful seasons of my life.

I experienced four consecutive miscarriages, including the loss of twins. In total, we lost five babies. Each loss carried its own heartbreak, but what stayed with me most was the quietness surrounding it. The way the world keeps moving. The way you’re expected to move with it.

Miscarriage is often spoken about as something “common,” but there is nothing ordinary about that kind of grief. It is layered, physical, emotional, and deeply personal.

I still remember sitting in my car after one appointment, hearing the words that there were no heartbeats. That I had lost not one, but two babies. The grief came in waves, raw and overwhelming, as if something inside me was quietly shattering. And yet, life kept calling me forward. I wiped my tears, gathered what strength I could, and went to pick up my daughter from daycare.

As we know, motherhood doesn’t pause for grief. We keep showing up. We keep holding space. Even when we feel like we’re unravelling inside.

After months of tests and uncertainty, IVF was suggested as a next step. I held onto that possibility carefully, trying to gather the strength to try again.

But life shifted once more, unexpectedly. My marriage ended abruptly, just weeks before the start of my treatment, and with it, the life I had built so carefully.

It was a kind of breaking that left me unsure of who I was without all the roles I had been holding together. And yet, even in that space, I was still a mother.

Sophie still needed me to be her safe place, her steady ground. And in trying to be that for her, I realised something quietly important: I needed to find my way back to myself too.

That’s when writing entered my life in a new way.

What began as small journal entries slowly became a place where I could be honest. A place where I didn’t have to pretend I was okay. And over time, Sophie began joining me in those quiet moments. We started creating little rituals together. Not big, complicated practices, just simple, intentional pauses in our day.

And within those moments, we discovered something gentle but powerful: words. Affirmations became part of our mornings, our evenings, and the in-between moments when emotions felt too big to carry alone.

At first, they felt unfamiliar. Saying things like “I am brave” or “I am capable” felt almost distant from how we actually felt. 

But we said them anyway. Not to ignore our feelings, but to soften them. To create space alongside them. And slowly, something began to shift.

I watched Sophie begin to speak to herself differently. I noticed her confidence return in small, beautiful ways. And I became more aware of my own inner voice, the one that had been quietly critical for so many years.

What I came to understand is that affirmations are not about pretending everything is okay. They are about building a relationship with yourself that is rooted in kindness. They are a way of meeting yourself where you are, without judgment.

For children, especially, this matters deeply. The way they learn to speak to themselves becomes the lens through which they see the world. In a world that so often encourages comparison and self-doubt, giving them tools to come back to themselves is one of the most powerful things we can do.

What started as a small practice between Sophie and me slowly grew into something more.

Together, we began creating a story about a little girl who carries a magical backpack filled with affirmations, reminding of who she is when she forgets. That story eventually became my first published children’s book, Sophie and Her Magical Backpack, inspired by the very words and moments that helped us heal.

We wrote it in quiet moments, when we couldn’t sleep, when we felt hurt. Sophie helped shape the words, always guiding them back to what felt true and simple. In many ways, we weren’t just writing a story. We were rewriting our own.

That story became a way to share what we had discovered, that even in the hardest moments, there is a way to gently come back to yourself. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But one thought, one word, one breath at a time.

If there is one thing this journey has taught me, it is this: our children are always listening. Not just to what we say out loud, but to how we speak to ourselves.

They learn from the way we hold our pain. The way we move through challenges. The way we offer ourselves compassion, or don’t.

And while we cannot protect them from life’s difficulties, we can offer them something just as important. We can show them how to meet those moments with softness instead of fear. We can remind them that their feelings are valid. We can teach them that within them, there is always a voice that can be kind, supportive, and strong.

Sometimes, that begins with something as simple as a sentence.

“You are capable.”

Because they are.

And so are we.

Life will always move in ways we cannot predict. It will stretch us, challenge us, and sometimes break us open. But within those moments, there is also an invitation. To slow down. To listen inward. To choose gentleness over perfection.

Sophie and I didn’t find healing in one big moment. We found it in the small, quiet ones. In whispered words, in shared stillness, in choosing, again and again, to believe that light still existed, even in the shadows.

Now, we carry that light forward. 

Not because life became easier, but because we learned how to meet it differently.

Danuza Silva is a passionate interior architect, children’s book author, and mother to her vibrant eight-year-old daughter, Sophie. Through motherhood, loss, and healing, she discovered the quiet power of words, and the role affirmations can play in building emotional resilience. Driven by her own hardships and healing, Danuza is on a mission to help children cultivate a positive mindset, believing that with the right tools, they can grow through life’s challenges with courage and confidence. You can find out more about Danuza and her beautiful book here: https://danuzasilva.com/