The Maternal Instinct

A Thing of Beauty to Behold

Now and then, you see someone make a choice that brings more difficulty and, at times, suffering. You ask yourself, Why choose the harder path? But for those who willingly walk into discomfort for the sake of growth and purpose, the answer reveals itself in time. I find myself reflecting on this as I witness my wife take on her own struggle—one that is both ancient and deeply human.

In our forties, settled into a new home, having travelled the world and built a comfortable life, we reached a moment that many would consider a plateau of ease. Yet both of us chose paths that disrupted comfort. I stepped away from a career that provided stability to pursue work grounded in meaning. My wife chose to pursue motherhood—a calling she has carried for years. And as she embraces the physical, emotional, and spiritual transformation this journey demands, I am moved in ways I did not anticipate. There is something profoundly inspiring about watching someone pursue something meaningful, especially when it asks everything of them.

There is a unique power in growth that arises when someone willingly faces hardship. There is agency in that surrender. And when someone leans into the archetypal call—whether it is the call to purpose, the call to fatherhood, or, in this case, the sacred call to motherhood—what emerges is a transformed human being. As a psychologist, I’ve always been fascinated by how resistance intensifies suffering. The more we push against the natural flow of life, the heavier everything feels. Energy is finite; wasting it on resisting reality only drains the soul. But when we meet reality with humility, energy becomes the currency of transformation.

The maternal instinct is biological, yes—but it is also spiritual, archetypal, and deeply embedded in the human story. Yet in a world that prizes convenience over sacrifice, this biological drive is often minimized or mocked. Many women struggle against it, not because it lacks value, but because we are told to transcend our own nature. What I am witnessing with my wife, however, is what happens when someone answers that instinct instead of resisting it. It becomes a portal into something elegant, purposeful, and deeply aligned.

But as with all gifts, there is a shadow. The maternal instinct, when unbalanced, can turn into the devouring mother—the archetype of overprotection, enmeshment, and emotional overindulgence. On one end, motherhood demands the ultimate sacrifice: to bring a child into this world, to hold a piece of one’s own soul outside the body, and to allow that soul to encounter the beauty and brutality of life. Growth requires exposure to reality, not insulation from it.

On the other end, when a mother shields her child from every discomfort, she is not protecting the child—she is protecting her own ego. The child remains unequipped, fragile, and unable to hold the complexity of the world. The heartbreak is that no one grows: neither the mother nor the child.

True sacrifice is the opposite. It is the diminishing of one’s ego to allow something new and profound to emerge. It requires a dying of the self in the short term, because death is always the prerequisite for rebirth. This makes sacrifice not merely emotional, but metaphysical. Even on a phenomenological level, small sacrifices—losing sleep, giving time, offering attention—become the soil from which new life grows.

This is why the Islamic tradition holds Maryam (Mary) in such high esteem. Her sacrifice was not only physical, but spiritual and existential. She carried the weight of divine decree with patience, trust, and unwavering faith. She endured solitude, judgment, and pain—not for ego, but for purpose. And for that, she became the only woman mentioned by name in the Qur’an, honoured with an entire chapter in her name. Her story is not just about motherhood; it is about surrender, transformation, and the human soul's capacity to bear what it did not think it could. The Quran reminds us that in the process of sacrifice, Allah’s mercy is always there, and in our most difficult moments, He showers us with His mercy, which is a sign of acceptance. The Qur’an captures this moment with a tenderness and depth that speaks to every soul that has ever endured hardship (19:23-30):

Then the pains of labour drove her to the trunk of a palm tree. She cried, “Alas! I wish I had died before this, and was a thing long forgotten!”

So a voice¹ reassured her from below her, “Do not grieve! Your Lord has provided a stream at your feet.

And shake the trunk of this palm tree towards you, it will drop fresh, ripe dates upon you.

So eat and drink, and put your heart at ease. But if you see any of the people, say, ‘I have vowed silence¹ to the Most Compassionate, so I am not talking to anyone today.’”

Then she returned to her people, carrying him. They said ˹in shock˺, “O Mary! You have certainly done a horrible thing!

O sister of Aaron!¹ Your father was not an indecent man, nor was your mother unchaste.”

So she pointed to the baby. They exclaimed, “How can we talk to someone who is an infant in the cradle?”

Jesus declared, “I am truly a servant of Allah. He has destined me to be given the Scripture and to be a prophet.

Witnessing my wife’s journey has reminded me of this sacred pattern: surrender, sacrifice, transformation. It is the world's oldest rhythm. And it is, truly, a thing of beauty to behold. When we answer our call, we not only transform ourselves—we transform the world around us.