Mum Mode

When I’m with friends – caring for them, paying attention, organizing, noticing – they’ll often joke that I’m in “Mum Mode,” or just call me “Mom.” There’s usually an ironic undertone, but I know to take it as a compliment – because it describes an attitude I like to adopt – without striving for perfection, without expectations. 

For me, being mothered means being allowed to take a short break from having to function. To simply being held, without worrying about being too much. 

We often think that this kind of care belongs to family. But at its core, it’s about care – about being there for others, without conditions. About creating a space where we can unlearn the need to function, and where neediness is not a flaw but a form of openness. 

In my life, it was often not my parents or relatives who opened up this space, but friends. People who stayed, when i felt low. Who saw what was missing without being told. As we grow older, care seems to shift. We have to learn it anew – learning to give, to receive, to accept, without asking for anything in return. 

In queer and feminist contexts, “mothering” has long been rethought as a collective practice–a shared responsibility, a bond that transcends traditional family models. Where classical structures are lacking or failing, supportive networks and temporary alliances emerge. In the end, care is less an inheritance than a choice: a decision to stay, to show up, to hold each other. 

“Mothering” therefore refers less to a role and more to a gesture. An attitude of care. A way of staying with others. A kind of care work defined not by identity, but by action: 

“I see you – and I will stay.” 

In a society that values performance over relationships and stigmatizes neediness, to be in mum mode is a quiet yet powerful act of resistance. It is not about motherhood in the biological sense, but about a fluid, reciprocal practice of care–one that strengthens friendships, creates new forms of closeness, and resists the demand to perform. 

“I’ll stick with you, even if you’re not shining.” 

“I’m here, even when you’re not.” 

Those who are held in this way come to know themselves anew. Mothering thus becomes a social imagination – a space of possibility for other forms of togetherness. It’s not the question of who you are that counts, but how you are there—for yourself and for others. A radical practice of closeness in a society that often asks for the opposite.