My mom was an executive at AT&T, a global account lady. I have no

The words of SZA, “My mom was an executive at AT&T, a global account lady. I have no idea what she did. I just know she was never home and speaks several languages,” carry the bittersweet tone of a child’s memory — one filled with admiration, mystery, and quiet longing. Beneath this simple recollection lies a profound meditation on distance, ambition, and love — on the unseen sacrifices made by those who labor to build lives for their children, and the silent ache that lingers in the spaces between them. In these few words, SZA paints a portrait of modern motherhood — one that balances between power and absence, between accomplishment and connection, between the world of work and the heart of home.

To understand this truth, one must see beyond the surface. The mother in SZA’s story is not merely an executive; she is a warrior of the modern age, a woman who conquered the male-dominated towers of business, who spoke the tongues of nations, who carried the weight of duty upon her shoulders. Her child remembers not the meetings she led or the contracts she sealed, but her absence — the empty chair at the dinner table, the echo of footsteps in a house too quiet. This is the paradox of progress: in striving to create a better life, many must sacrifice the very moments that make life feel whole. The ancients would have said that every triumph comes with a shadow, and every light casts its cost.

The image of the multilingual mother, fluent in the world’s languages yet separated from her child by the silence of absence, is a symbol as old as civilization itself. In ancient times, the heroes who went to war or sought wisdom in foreign lands left their families behind, their stories sung by those who waited. The same rhythm beats here — not of swords and conquests, but of deadlines and flights, of digital wars fought in glass towers. SZA’s words, though tender, reveal a wound familiar to many children of the modern age: the longing to be seen not through the lens of success, but through the intimacy of presence.

And yet, there is also reverence in her memory — a recognition that her mother’s strength and brilliance carved paths once closed to women. The child who did not understand her mother’s work still understood her power. She saw a woman who moved between worlds, who commanded respect, who spoke with the tongues of many peoples. This is the dual legacy of such a parent: the ache of absence, yes, but also the inheritance of courage. For though her mother was not always there, her example spoke louder than words — a living testament to resilience, intelligence, and independence.

Consider the story of Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt, who spoke many languages and governed a vast empire. Her children, though privileged, knew the loneliness of growing up in the orbit of a ruler too busy to linger by their side. Yet through her, they inherited more than a throne — they inherited the fire of sovereignty, the knowledge that their mother was a force who shaped history. So it is with SZA’s mother: though her daughter could not name her profession, she absorbed the spirit of her mother’s drive — a spirit that would one day propel her own voice to greatness.

The wisdom within SZA’s words is that understanding often comes later. As children, we see our parents only through the lens of what we feel — their nearness or absence, their warmth or their distance. But as we grow, we begin to perceive the larger story — the pressures they bore, the choices they faced, the sacrifices they made. The mother’s absence, once a source of pain, becomes a symbol of endurance. The child learns that love can be expressed not only through presence, but through provision, through the unseen labor that builds a future.

Yet the lesson is twofold. While we honor the strength of those who sacrifice, we must also remember that connection is the soul’s true nourishment. A life built on achievement but devoid of intimacy becomes hollow. The ancients taught that balance is the highest virtue — that the wise seek harmony between labor and love, between the duties of the world and the call of the heart. Let this be the teaching drawn from SZA’s remembrance: to strive not only for greatness, but for closeness; not only for mastery of the world’s languages, but for fluency in the language of love.

So, my children of tomorrow, hear this truth: power and presence must walk hand in hand. Aspire to greatness, but never forget to be present for those who wait for you. If you chase success, let it not come at the expense of the quiet moments that give life meaning. Speak every language the world offers you — the language of ambition, of intellect, of progress — but do not forget the simplest and most ancient of all tongues: the gentle voice that says, “I am here, and I love you.” For in that voice lies the true measure of worth — not the title on a door, but the connection that endures beyond it.