I am a mother of a two-year-old boy, a wife, and a civil servant. My daily life is a careful dance between deadlines and diaper changes, meetings and mealtimes, conference calls and bedtime stories. Amid this routine, I hold onto a dream I’ve carried since high school — to pursue further studies abroad.
For years, that dream waited quietly in the background, overshadowed by work and family responsibilities. Last year, I finally decided to act on it. I applied for a well-known scholarship in Indonesia, pouring hours into essays, forms, and interviews. When the rejection letter came, I was naturally disappointed. But I don’t see it as failure. The real story isn’t about losing the scholarship — it’s about the journey and the questions that surfaced along the way.
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What surprised me most wasn’t the rigorous process, but the reactions of people around me. Instead of asking about my research plan or how I hoped to contribute to Indonesia’s development, their first questions were:
“What about your son?”
“Who will take care of him while you’re away?”
“How could you leave him? I could never do that.”
I love my son more than anything. He is my anchor and my joy. But hearing those same questions repeatedly planted an uncomfortable thought: Do they see me as a bad mother just because I dared to dream?
Even more telling was the silence directed at my husband. He also works full time, yet nobody ever asked him who would care for our child when he was busy. Nobody suggested his ambitions might clash with fatherhood. His dreams were assumed to be normal. Mine, somehow, were framed as selfish.
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Why is it so hard for mothers to dream out loud?
This is the reality many Indonesian women live with. Our culture still assumes that childcare is a mother’s sole duty, while fathers are free to pursue careers or education without guilt. The result? A country with high rates of “fatherless” households — not because fathers are absent in name, but because they are often excused from active parenting.
I’m lucky to have a husband who supports me. He gave me time to focus on my scholarship essays and IELTS prep. The discouraging remarks, ironically, didn’t come from him but from colleagues and friends. Their comments were a reminder that women are constantly measured against patriarchal expectations, where our ambitions are constantly measured against our family roles.
Statistics echo this pattern. According to Indonesia’s Central Bureau of Statistics (BPS), the education gap between male and female civil servants remains wide. In 2023, women with master’s degrees lagged 9 percent behind men. At the doctoral level, women made up only 44 percent of graduates. These numbers aren’t just statistics — they represent countless women whose academic and professional dreams stall once they marry and have children.
My experience was just one example of this bigger problem. The scholarship process wasn’t only about academic merit — it became a test of whether society could see me as more than a caregiver. Mothers, too, deserve to be recognized as learners, leaders, and dreamers.
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Motherhood already asks for enormous sacrifice: carrying a baby for nine months, labor, sleepless nights, giving up rest, comfort, and sometimes parts of ourselves. Yet after all that, society still has the audacity to tell mothers they shouldn’t reach for more.
I believe we can — and we must. We can nurture our children and still nurture our own ambitions. We can be present at bedtime and still pursue degrees, careers, or passions. These are not contradictions; they are possibilities. A fulfilled mother can inspire her children in ways that extend far beyond the home.
For me, chasing this dream is not about abandoning my son. It’s about showing him what courage looks like. I want him to see that his mother dared to try, valued herself, and believed in living fully.
Because raising a child is not just about survival — it’s about modeling resilience and hope. I want him to grow up knowing that love and ambition can coexist, that a woman can be both a devoted mother and a determined dreamer.
Like a flamingo standing tall after the storm, we too can remain graceful while weathering life’s demands. And maybe, just maybe, our children will learn from us not only how to survive — but how to thrive.
Sheila Soraya works as a civil servant at the Ministry of Public Works.
Illustration by Karina Tungari
