Designer Suhani Parekh reflects on motherhood, memory, and love that changes you forever

The setting was nothing short of breathtaking. A crimson sunset, blues that stretch into the horizon, wind in the coconut trees behind and the sound of the crashing waves. I was seven months pregnant at Soneva Fushi in the Maldives in 2023, celebrating our babymoon. My husband moved his camera from the sunset to me. "A little video," he said. "Leave a message for the baby." 

I had no words, not really. What message did I have for the strange creature that inhabited my body? 

"Tell her you love her," he prompted. But did I? 

Was I excited to meet her? Absolutely yes. But love, how do you love someone you’ve never even met? 

Life has a funny way of coming full circle, it’s been three years and I’m back on that same little atoll, this time with our mini human, Veya. As I stand on that very beach and think back to that video, I realise that what I felt then wasn’t even scratching the surface, and there’s no feeling quite as profound as loving your child. 

I look at the gentle waves that break on the shore and think that, back then, the idea of love and motherhood felt like this: a gentle wave that comes to greet your feet, teasing you to step into the ocean, full of promise of adventure and discovery of a whole new world. 

So now, how would I describe it, after just three years? 

You must excuse the ocean analogies, but I am on a beautiful beach as I write this; it’s impossible not to feel inspired and a little in awe of it.

To me, motherhood was being thrown into the deep ocean for a dive without any training or equipment. Salt stings your eyes as they struggle to adjust to this alien atmosphere. You move blindly in the dark, the pressure starts to build up, and you don’t know how to equalise. Just when your body acclimatises, you realise you can’t breathe (sounds morbid? Don’t worry, I am coming to the good part.) But there in this deep, dark new world, to survive, you must evolve into another version of yourself—a version with gills. 

The crushing pressure becomes nothing more than a hum, you now thrive in it (on most days anyway), and as the light enters your new eyes and oxygen through your newly evolved gills, you’ll see the world as you’ve never seen before, with more clarity and colour than you knew existed, and the love you’ll experience is hard to describe in words. 

If you think I’m trying to sell you on motherhood or the Maldives, you might be right. Both in my case have brought me a lot of joy. 

These past few days felt like the perfect rhythm, and somewhere in the quiet monotony of island life, I realised that in addition to my wonderful new ability to breathe underwater, motherhood has given me yet another unexpected gift: a rebirth of perspective. 

On this quiet stretch of sand, as the ocean shifts between impossible shades of blue and time dissolves with the tide, I discovered that I’ve learned so much from my daughter in these few short years. 

She moves through each day anchored entirely in the present, captivated by the textures and colours under her feet. Like the waves that wash the shore, she never lingers on what came before; each day is a clean slate. Feelings pass through her like the island breeze—hot, intense yet honest, and then gone—making space for a kind of effortless forgiveness that reminds me how simple making amends can be when ego isn’t involved. 

There is a purity in her authenticity. She is direct, unfiltered, and completely at ease in her own skin. She says no without hesitation, not as defiance but as a clear assertion of self, a quiet lesson in boundaries we often lose as adults. 

She explores the island relentlessly, turning it into her own world. And her laughter is a gentle reminder to smile, to loosen my grip on seriousness, and to remember that this, all of this, is not a destination to reach but a journey to be lived.

One morning, in the midst of a busy sandcastle-making session, I said something about growing old. She immediately put down her spade, looked up at me and told me I couldn’t become old because I was her mama. 

I told her mamas grow old, too. Her eyes welled up with tears. "No," she affirmed, I couldn’t get older because I was her mama. She would stop it with her newly acquired ocean magic. 

And then she looked at me with those big, beautiful eyes with the most genuine love. She asked me, so seriously, ‘Can you be my mama forever?’  I thought my heart was going to explode. "Always," I told her, "I promise to be your mama forever." 

She smiled, and in an instant, all the worry had left her; she happily resumed her castle-making exploits. 

And then I thought of my own mother.  Once upon a time, she sat on a different beach with a little baby girl, making sandcastles. I know now that magic won’t keep her with me forever, but I still had to ask. 

I reached down to my phone and texted, 'Will you be my mama forever?' 

A minute later, my phone buzzes. 

‘Always,’ she replies. 

Lead image: Courtesy Suhani Parekh

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