At 45, a Kashmiri homemaker who spent more than two decades raising three children says motherhood reshaped every aspect of her life, from personal ambition to daily survival, reflecting the largely undocumented experiences of women who sustained households through economic hardship and political unrest in the region.

Speaking during an interview conducted on International Mother’s Day, she described a life marked by early marriage, domestic responsibility and long-term sacrifice. Married at the age of 19, she said she had been employed at an endowment institution before her marriage, but was later unable to continue working after entering her husband’s household.

Her account illustrates the social realities faced by many women in conservative and rural communities across Jammu and Kashmir during the 1990s and early 2000s, where marriage often ended formal employment opportunities for women despite educational qualifications or work experience.

“I was young when I got married,” she said. “After marriage, my responsibilities changed completely.”

According to her account, the family lived in conditions of financial hardship during the early years of marriage. She worked alongside extended family members in agricultural fields while simultaneously caring for her first child. She recalled carrying the infant with her while working outdoors, relying on assistance from female relatives during long working hours.

The woman said motherhood altered her emotional priorities soon after the birth of her first child. “My love shifted from my family toward my first child,” she said, describing motherhood as a transition that demanded constant emotional and physical commitment.

Her eldest child, who conducted the interview, described her as the “cornerstone” of the family and credited her with sustaining household stability despite economic limitations. The family marks 24 years since she became a mother.

Throughout those years, she remained a full-time homemaker, managing domestic responsibilities that included childcare, cooking, maintaining the household and supporting her husband’s work schedule. The family home eventually expanded into a 10-room residence, which she continues to maintain largely on her own, according to the interview.

Despite never returning to formal employment, she continued informal educational engagement within the household. Fluent in Urdu, she regularly read Urdu moral literature and narrated stories to her children, using them as a tool for discipline and moral instruction.

Her children said those stories became central to their upbringing and helped shape their understanding of behaviour, honesty and family responsibility. “She taught us good habits through stories,” her child said during the interview.One memory recalled during the conversation involved a school morning when a child had forgotten to polish shoes before leaving home.

According to the account, she cleaned the shoes herself using her scarf so the child could attend school properly dressed.The episode, though minor, was presented by family members as representative of the routine, largely invisible labour performed by mothers within households.

Across South Asia, domestic work performed by women remains economically unrecognised despite contributing substantially to household functioning and caregiving structures, according to multiple studies by development agencies and labour economists.

In Kashmir, women have historically played dual roles in both domestic and agricultural sectors, particularly in rural districts where families depended on subsistence farming and seasonal labour. The woman interviewed said she frequently balanced field work with domestic responsibilities during the family’s most financially difficult years.

She also linked her experience of motherhood to the wider political instability in Kashmir. Having lived through decades of unrest in the region, she said she deliberately chose neutrality and restraint while focusing on protecting her household from the psychological strain of conflict.

“Being calm was important,” she said. “There was already enough unrest outside.”

The family described her approach as disciplined and emotionally controlled, even during periods of stress. Her child said she learned over time “to fight, not flight,” a phrase used to describe her ability to endure personal difficulties without withdrawing from family responsibilities.

Her physical appearance now reflects years of labour and age, according to the interview. Grey hair and visible wrinkles have appeared, yet her routine remains physically demanding. Family members said she continues to work daily in the kitchen garden, prepare meals, iron clothes and organise household tasks for the family.

“She still works continuously,” her child said. “Even today she handles the house, takes care of our father and prepares everything for us.”

The interview also addressed changing definitions of women’s empowerment in contemporary Indian society. While public discussions around empowerment often focus on education, employment and financial independence, the family argued that domestic labour and caregiving should also be recognised within those conversations.

“Empowerment is not only moving outside the home,” her child said. “It is also about how a woman turns a house into a home.”

The statement reflects an ongoing debate within Indian social discourse about the visibility and valuation of unpaid domestic work. According to data from the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) and Indian time-use surveys, women in India spend substantially more hours on unpaid household labour than men, particularly in rural regions.

In this case, the woman’s contribution remained centred inside the household rather than through salaried employment. Yet family members said her role shaped the educational and moral foundation of all three children.

Although the children said they have not yet fully achieved their professional goals, they credited their upbringing and discipline to their mother’s consistency and guidance. “The morals she provided are difficult to explain,” her child said. “She is extraordinary.”

The woman’s life also reflects generational patterns among Kashmiri mothers who came of age before broader educational and employment opportunities became accessible to women in many parts of the region. While literacy and school participation among women in Jammu and Kashmir improved significantly over the past two decades, many women from earlier generations remained confined largely to domestic roles after marriage.

Despite those limitations, the woman interviewed said she never viewed motherhood solely as sacrifice. Instead, she described it as continuous work requiring patience, emotional control and adaptation.

“There were times we were hurt by our children,” she said. “But with time, I learned how to handle everything.”

Her account suggests an understanding of motherhood rooted less in idealism than endurance. Rather than describing dramatic events, she focused on repetitive daily responsibilities that accumulated over decades: preparing meals, managing finances during periods of poverty, caring for children during illness and maintaining emotional stability inside the household.

The interview concluded without expressions of regret regarding the opportunities she lost after marriage. Instead, she described satisfaction in seeing her children raised with education, discipline and social values.

Within the household, family members said she remains the central organising force even as the children enter adulthood. Her work, though informal and unpaid, continues to structure the family’s daily life.

“She made the house feel like heaven,” her child said.

Actor Danny Dyer says his latest role in Rivals has reshaped public perceptions of both his career and masculinity, marking a notable shift from the tough, volatile characters that defined much of his three-decade screen career.

Approaching 50, Dyer has found renewed attention as the breakout emotional center of the television adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s novel. In the series, he plays Freddie Jones, a self-made electronics businessman portrayed as one of the few morally grounded figures in a world driven by rivalry, betrayal and sexual intrigue.

The role contrasts sharply with the football hooligans and self-destructive antiheroes long associated with his screen image.Speaking during promotional work for the show’s return, Dyer acknowledged that the role surprised audiences as much as it surprised him. Known for performances in films such as The Football Factory and Marching Powder, both directed by Nick Love, he had become closely identified with violent, emotionally guarded male characters.

In Rivals, however, Freddie Jones is written with emotional openness and vulnerability. Dyer said that aspect of the character resonated strongly with viewers and reflected a wider issue around modern masculinity. He argued that many men remain uncomfortable expressing affection or emotional honesty, often equating vulnerability with weakness.

Dyer said the character’s softer qualities helped challenge those assumptions. Rather than relying on aggression or dominance, Freddie is defined by emotional intelligence and loyalty. The role has turned Dyer, unexpectedly, into what many viewers describe as a middle-aged romantic lead, a development he said he did not anticipate.

The actor’s recent visibility reflects that change. This year, he appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone UK, something he said felt unusual after decades in the public eye. He noted that despite a long career across film, television and theatre, mainstream recognition at that level had come relatively late.Much of Dyer’s earlier fame was shaped as much by tabloid notoriety as acting.

Public attention frequently focused on his drinking, personal scandals and outspoken persona. Yet he also built a reputation for durability, remaining with his childhood partner Jo for decades despite periods of separation and public scrutiny.Dyer said financial stability, rather than artistic prestige, has often guided his career decisions.

He spoke openly about the commercial realities of acting, recalling earnings from projects ranging from the BBC genealogy programme Who Do You Think You Are? to long-running soap EastEnders, where he played Queen Vic landlord Mick Carter.During his appearance on Who Do You Think You Are?, Dyer discovered family links to Thomas Cromwell and Edward III.

He said he was less interested in royal ancestry than in Cromwell’s rise from working-class origins.Alongside Rivals, Dyer is balancing multiple television and film projects, including the Sky reality programme The Dyers’ Caravan Park with his daughter Dani, the Channel 4 drama The Siege, based on the 1980 Iranian embassy siege, and the ITV competition format Nobody’s Fool.

He has also paused the family podcast he co-hosted with Dani because of time constraints.His recent film Marching Powder, in which he plays a middle-aged man struggling with addiction and marital breakdown against a backdrop of football violence, became his most commercially successful film despite poor critical reception.

Dyer said the project should have focused more on addiction and relationships rather than hooliganism, arguing that the emotional core of the story was overshadowed by violence.The subject remains relevant. Reported football-related disorder incidents across England and Wales rose by 18% in the 2024–25 season compared with the previous year, according to figures referenced in the interview.

Dyer said such stories are not intended to glorify violence but to reflect tribalism, disenfranchisement and male social behaviour often shaped around alcohol and group identity.He linked these concerns to wider anxieties about masculinity and parenting.

Dyer said he worries about raising his 12-year-old son Arty in a culture dominated by phones, digital distraction and online influence. He expressed concern that children increasingly rely on technology for thinking and decision-making, which he believes weakens independence and real-world social habits.To counter that, he said he prioritises time outdoors, cycling and teaching his son chess.

Still, he acknowledged that modern parenting requires adapting to a generation that socialises largely through gaming and online communication rather than face-to-face interaction.Dyer’s own upbringing in Custom House, east London, shaped much of his understanding of male identity.

Raised in a working-class environment marked by conflict and instability, he said humour became his defence rather than physical confrontation. Although often cast as football hooligans, he said he was never directly involved in that culture, despite growing up around it.His family life was also marked by disruption. His father left when Dyer was nine and was later found to have maintained a second family.

For years, they were estranged. Dyer said those experiences created deep fears of abandonment, later reinforced by the death of his maternal step-grandfather, who had become a father figure.He has since spoken openly about therapy and how those unresolved fears influenced destructive behaviour, including affairs that nearly ended his long relationship with Jo.

The couple separated for several years before reconciling and eventually marrying. Dyer said he still considers that reconciliation one of the defining moments of his personal life.Politically, Dyer remains outspoken. His 2018 televised criticism of former Prime Minister David Cameron over Brexit became one of his most widely shared public moments.

Asked more recently about current leadership under Keir Starmer, Dyer said his frustration is less about individuals than about a broader political failure to represent working-class communities.He argued that successive governments have encouraged division among ordinary people while avoiding accountability for structural inequality, particularly around class, economic insecurity and public services.

For Dyer, the success of Rivals appears to reflect not only a career reinvention but also a broader cultural shift. The actor long associated with aggression and volatility is now being recognised for portraying emotional honesty, suggesting that public ideas of masculinity may be changing as much as his own screen image.

For years, she wanted a child. After a decade of waiting, hope and uncertainty, pregnancy finally arrived carrying both joy and fear in equal measure. What followed, however, was not the soft, instinctive transition into motherhood that culture often promises, but a physically traumatic birth, emotional numbness and a long struggle to recognise herself in her new life.

During pregnancy, she found herself largely alone. Her husband, though supportive and loving, was frequently absent, consumed by the demands of a startup consultancy he had recently founded with two academic partners.

Medical appointments, including an amniocentesis prompted by concerns over possible chromosomal abnormalities, were often faced without him because he was abroad for work.

She attended prenatal classes, but support systems felt limited. Only one person in her close circle had children, and her relationship with her own mother, who lived in Italy, was strained. The isolation deepened her anxiety, particularly because childbirth itself frightened her.

When she raised those fears with her general practitioner, she recalls receiving a familiar reassurance that did little to ease them.“Don’t worry, birth isn’t an illness,” her male GP told her. “It’s all perfectly natural.”She felt the dismissal ignored her lived reality. She was asthmatic and suffering from undiagnosed endometriosis that caused severe pain every few weeks.

Pregnancy did not feel simple or natural. It felt uncertain and medically significant.Still, she felt deeply connected to the child growing inside her. She recognised her daughter through movement alone—the shape of limbs pressing against skin, strong kicks in response to passing sirens, a physical presence both strange and intimate.

She imagined a temperament already forming: long legs like her father, a temper like her own.She expected love to be immediate. After waiting so long, how could it not be?Her due date passed. Then another week.

Then another. At more than 44 weeks pregnant, she says she had to insist repeatedly before her GP agreed to induction. Only when hospital monitoring showed signs of fetal distress did medical staff finally intervene and break her waters.

Labour lasted 20 hours.

She describes induced labour not as a gradual progression but as a sudden collapse into nausea, pain and exhaustion. Hours passed with no progress. She was unable to receive an epidural at first because she was not dilating. The pain became all-consuming.

At one point, fearing the worst, she asked her husband to make a promise: if doctors had to choose between saving her life and their child’s, he should choose the baby.“I am not going to lose either of you,” he replied.

She remembers University College Hospital at the time as a place that inspired little confidence—a crumbling Victorian building with filthy bathrooms, blood on the floors and junior doctors exhausted by punishing shifts. Around her, the maternity ward echoed with the sounds of women in labour: groans, cries, gasps and fear.Eventually she received an epidural, but the baby remained stuck.

Just before midnight, an emergency forceps delivery and episiotomy were performed. Her husband later told her there were 13 people in the room.Then their daughter arrived.She weighed just under 4.5 kilograms—almost 10 pounds.

The mother had lost so much blood that the experience felt, in her words, like surviving a car crash. Her husband, standing in blood-soaked jeans, was overwhelmed with joy.“Isn’t she wonderful?” he said.She felt nothing.

She describes the absence of emotion not as rejection, but as total numbness, as though the epidural that had numbed her body had also severed access to feeling. She spent the night awake in the recovery ward waiting for the expected rush of maternal love that never came, listening to other women crying as anaesthesia wore off.

Instead, she felt transported back to boarding school dormitories, where she had learned early to suppress everything except anger.“Rage has served me quite often as a stimulant against exhaustion,” she writes. “Every woman who goes through childbirth has, I believe, been through the equivalent of war.

”She compares childbirth to trauma rather than celebration, arguing that many women leave the experience carrying symptoms closer to post-traumatic stress than to joy.

She believes poor maternity care intensified that reality.Her experience took place during years of severe strain on Britain’s National Health Service, when long-term underfunding and overstretched staff affected standards of care.

But she also sees a broader cultural issue: motherhood itself, she argues, is often insufficiently respected.At the time, general practice and obstetrics were still dominated by men.

She does not argue that male doctors cannot provide excellent care, but believes many failed to understand how dangerous childbirth could still be, or how often women’s pain was normalised rather than addressed.She was discharged the next day after a blood transfusion and severe physical trauma. She could barely walk.

Her husband worried about her physical recovery, but neither of them recognised the mental damage taking shape beneath it.When the baby began crying—night after night, almost without pause motherhood became a contest between exhaustion and fury.

“Once our baby began to cry relentlessly every night, all night, it felt like a battle between my rage and hers,” she recalls.Then one day, something changed.Her daughter, whose eyes had until then seemed distant and unfocused, suddenly looked directly at her. Then came a smile—clear, unmistakable and full.It was not simply recognition. It felt like acceptance.

“She seemed not only to recognise me, but to greet me with unconditional love and delight,” she writes.She understood intellectually that infant smiles are biological survival mechanisms, but the emotional impact was overwhelming.

The joy felt so sharp it was almost painful.“Oh!” she remembers saying. “It’s you. It’s you.”That first smile altered everything.The sleepless nights did not disappear. The crying continued. But something fundamental shifted in her understanding of motherhood, of love and even of her own mother.

Her relationship with her mother, long marked by pain and distance, softened. She began to understand her mother’s own unresolved grief and emotional absences not simply as cruelty, but as the result of childhood bereavement and wounds never healed.Motherhood brought not only responsibility, but perspective.

As a writer, she found that literature had offered little preparation for the reality of childbirth. Victorian novels she loved moved quickly past pregnancy and motherhood, treating them as narrative transitions rather than lived experiences.

Even contemporary women writers often avoided describing the devastation of birth itself.When she included the physical brutality of childbirth in her 1996 novel A Vicious Circle, critics attacked what one reviewer called “revolting details.”

Yet she says she had still softened the truth, giving her fictional heroine an instant maternal bond she herself had not felt.Years later, much changed. Hospitals improved. Her GP practice became staffed by younger, mostly women doctors. She had a second child, a son, whose birth was entirely different and with whom she bonded immediately.

Her daughter, Leon, grew into a novelist herself—healthy, loving and brilliant.Looking back, she says motherhood brought both unimaginable suffering and extraordinary love.

Public conversation often reduces it to either sentimental joy or unbearable hardship. The truth, she argues, is both.And if the early days felt like darkness, what remained was not the trauma alone, but the light that followed.