When you're a mom, you need sparkle to compensate for the light

“When you’re a mom, you need sparkle to compensate for the light inside of you that has died.” — so spoke Ali Wong, the comic philosopher of our age, who cloaks deep truths in laughter. In this sentence, playful and piercing, she gives voice to a sacred paradox: that motherhood, the giver of life, can also be the quiet extinguishing of a woman’s inner flame. It is a line both tragic and tender — for though she speaks in jest, the wisdom beneath her humor is profound. She reminds us that creation always costs something, that the act of nurturing new life often demands the sacrifice of one’s own.

To the ancients, this truth was not foreign. They knew that the mother is both the source of light and the bearer of shadows. The goddess Demeter, when her daughter Persephone was taken to the underworld, allowed the earth itself to grow barren. Her sorrow became winter, her longing a darkness over all living things. Yet from her grief came the rhythm of the seasons — loss and renewal intertwined. So too in Wong’s words: the “light inside that has died” is not the death of love, but the fading of self that mothers quietly endure. In giving so much to others, they often forget the brightness that once burned solely for themselves.

When Ali Wong speaks of needing “sparkle,” she speaks of armor — of adornment as resurrection. The sparkle is not vanity; it is survival. It is the external shimmer that replaces what exhaustion, duty, and endless care have dimmed within. It is the lipstick before the school drop-off, the laughter amid sleepless nights, the little joys that protect the spirit from despair. To put on sparkle is to say: Though I am tired, I am still here. Though I have given much, I have not disappeared. The ancients would have called this the ritual of renewal — the way the soul rebuilds itself through beauty and small acts of rebellion against decay.

In every age, this truth repeats itself. Consider Queen Hatshepsut of Egypt, who ruled not only with intellect but with splendor. Her reign demanded endless sacrifice — her ambitions, her femininity, her freedom to simply be. Yet she adorned herself in gold, not out of vanity, but as a declaration of power. The sparkle was her defense, her way of saying that though leadership had taken much from her, her light was not gone — only transformed. So too does the modern mother, through humor or fashion or quiet moments of self-care, reclaim her dignity in the face of exhaustion. Her sparkle, like Hatshepsut’s crown, is both her burden and her banner.

There is also a deeper tenderness in Wong’s observation — a lament unspoken. For every mother, in some hidden chamber of her heart, grieves the person she once was. The girl with dreams unburdened, the woman who belonged only to herself — she becomes a ghost, living beneath layers of duty. Yet in this grief lies the root of her power. For by mourning what she has lost, she learns to appreciate what she has become. The sparkle, then, is not only compensation for death, but celebration of survival — the small, glittering proof that even in sacrifice, the human spirit still burns.

Ali Wong’s genius lies in wrapping truth in laughter. Her humor disarms us, but her words reveal the sacred cost of love. To be a mother, she shows, is to live between radiance and ruin — to pour light into others until your own flame flickers. And yet, the act of putting on sparkle, of choosing joy in the midst of depletion, is itself an act of rebellion against despair. It is the same courage that has carried mothers through every age — from the women who raised warriors to the ones who hold quiet households together through storms of their own.

So, my child, take this teaching to heart: when your own inner light grows dim, do not curse the darkness — adorn it. Find your sparkle. It may be laughter, prayer, creativity, or solitude, but it must be yours. Remember that the world will always take from those who give freely, and only those who replenish themselves can continue to shine. For the mother’s light, though it may flicker, is eternal — and her sparkle, whether it be in humor or in courage, is the reflection of that divine endurance. Let it remind you always: the light that seems to die is never truly gone; it simply changes form, waiting to rise again.