Mother Teresa’s name is one that resonates around the world—a symbol of compassion, selflessness, and goodness. She spent her life serving the poorest of the poor, turning her faith into action in ways that touched millions. In this blog post, we’re going to take a deep dive into her journey: who she was, what she did, and why her work still matters today. From her humble beginnings to founding the Missionaries of Charity, from the streets of Calcutta to a global legacy, her story is one of quiet determination and profound impact. I’ve always been fascinated by how one person could do so much with so little, and I’m excited to share her life’s work with you—her struggles, her triumphs, and the goodness that defined her. Let’s get started.
Early Life: A Seed of Compassion
Mother Teresa was born on August 26, 1910, in Skopje, a city that’s now part of North Macedonia but was then under the Ottoman Empire. Her real name was Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu—quite a mouthful, which is why she’s better known by her religious title. She grew up in a modest Albanian family, with a dad who worked as a merchant and a mom who was deeply religious. They weren’t rich, but they had enough, and her mom, Drana, made a point of helping people in need—inviting the poor to their table, sewing clothes for neighbors. I think that stuck with Anjezë; she later said those early lessons of kindness shaped her.
When she was just 12, she felt a pull toward a religious life—something about serving God clicked for her. Her dad died around that time, leaving the family in a tougher spot, but it didn’t shake her resolve. By 18, she decided to join the Sisters of Loreto, an Irish order of nuns focused on education. She said goodbye to her mom and sister—her only close family left—and headed to Ireland to start her training. It wasn’t easy leaving home, but she saw it as a step toward something bigger. After learning English and taking her first vows, she was sent to India in 1929, a place that would become her life’s stage. That’s where Anjezë became Sister Teresa, named after St. Thérèse of Lisieux, a saint known for simple acts of love.
A Call Within a Call
For nearly 20 years, Sister Teresa worked as a teacher in Calcutta—now Kolkata—at St. Mary’s School, run by the Loreto nuns. She taught geography and history to girls from well-off families, living in a convent with a comfortable routine. It was a good life, by most standards—safe, steady, meaningful. But something nagged at her. Outside the convent walls, she saw poverty that hit her hard: kids begging, families sleeping on the streets, people dying without care. Calcutta in the 1930s and ‘40s was a city of contrasts—British colonial wealth alongside crushing hardship, especially after World War II and India’s independence struggles.
Then, in 1946, everything changed. She was on a train to Darjeeling for a retreat when she felt what she called “a call within a call.” She described it as Jesus speaking to her, asking her to leave the convent and serve the poorest of the poor directly. It wasn’t a vague feeling—she said it was clear, urgent, like a mission she couldn’t ignore. I’ve always found that moment fascinating; it’s one thing to feel sympathy, but another to uproot your whole life for it. She spent two years getting permission from the church—nuns don’t just walk away from their orders—and in 1948, at 38, she stepped out on her own. She swapped her Loreto habit for a simple white sari with blue stripes, a look that’d become her trademark, and started her work in Calcutta’s slums.
Founding the Missionaries of Charity
Mother Teresa didn’t waste time. With basic medical training from some nuns in Patna, she headed into the city’s poorest areas, armed with little more than faith and a few rupees. Her first move was practical—starting a school for slum kids, teaching them under a tree with sticks in the dirt for a blackboard. Word spread, and soon she had volunteers—former students, locals—joining her. By 1950, she got the Vatican’s okay to start her own order: the Missionaries of Charity. It was small at first, just her and a handful of nuns, but it grew fast because her mission was so clear: help “the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers,” anyone society forgot.
I’ve read about those early days, and it’s wild to think how little she had to work with—no funding, no building, just sheer will. They’d pick up dying people off the streets—folks with tuberculosis, malnutrition, wounds no one else would touch—and care for them in makeshift shelters. One story stands out: she found a woman dying in a gutter, ignored by passersby, and took her to a hospital that refused her. So, Mother Teresa begged the city for a space, and they gave her an old pilgrims’ hostel near a temple. That became the Home for the Dying, a place where people could pass with dignity. It wasn’t fancy—bare rooms, basic beds—but it was a start, and it showed what she was about: seeing worth in everyone.
A Life of Service: The Work Expands
The Missionaries of Charity didn’t stay small. By the 1960s, they were opening homes across India—orphanages, leper clinics, hospices—wherever the need was. Mother Teresa had this knack for keeping things simple but effective. She trained her nuns to live like the poor they served—no luxuries, just the basics—so they could focus on the work. I’ve seen photos from that time: nuns in those white saris, washing clothes by hand, feeding kids with spoons, smiling through it all. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real—hands-on care that made a difference one person at a time.
Her work caught attention beyond India too. In 1969, a BBC documentary called *Something Beautiful for God* put her on the global map. People saw this tiny woman—barely five feet tall—lifting babies, comforting the sick, and they were moved. Donations poured in, volunteers signed up, and the Missionaries spread—to Venezuela, Italy, Australia, eventually over 100 countries. She opened a home in New York in the ‘70s, tackling poverty in the West, proving her mission wasn’t just for one place. By the ‘90s, her order had thousands of nuns and brothers, plus countless lay helpers, all following her lead: serve the poorest, no questions asked.
Challenges and Criticism
It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though. Mother Teresa faced plenty of pushback—some fair, some not. Critics said her homes were too basic—lacking modern medicine, reusing needles—which wasn’t ideal by Western standards. I’ve looked into this, and it’s complicated. She wasn’t running hospitals; she was offering care where there was none, often with limited resources. She’d say her goal wasn’t to cure but to comfort—give people love when they had nothing else. Still, it’s a valid point—more funding could’ve upgraded things, and she didn’t always push for that, trusting God to provide instead.
Then there’s the spiritual side. She was staunchly Catholic—against abortion, contraception—which rubbed some people the wrong way, especially as her fame grew. I get why that sparked debate; her views didn’t align with everyone’s, and she didn’t shy away from them. There were also whispers she glorified suffering, romanticizing poverty instead of fixing it. From what I’ve read, that’s a stretch—she didn’t want people to suffer; she wanted to be with them in it, to ease it however she could. Her approach wasn’t perfect, but it was hers, rooted in a faith that drove everything she did.
A Personal Struggle: The Dark Night
Here’s something that surprised me when I first learned it: Mother Teresa wasn’t always full of joy. In letters released after her death—she’d asked they be destroyed, but the church kept them—she wrote about a deep spiritual dryness. For decades, starting around the time she left Loreto, she felt distant from God, like her prayers hit a wall. She called it her “darkness,” a loneliness that sat beside her even as she smiled for the world. I think that makes her more human—she wasn’t some saint floating above us; she was wrestling with doubt, pushing through it to keep going.
She’d write to her confessors about this emptiness, saying it was her share in the poor’s suffering—a way to understand them better. It didn’t stop her work; if anything, it fueled it. I’ve thought about that a lot—how she kept serving, day after day, even when she felt alone inside. It’s a kind of strength that’s hard to wrap your head around, and it shows how deep her commitment ran. That struggle stayed private until after she was gone, but it’s part of her story—a reminder that goodness isn’t always easy.
Recognition and a Lasting Legacy
Mother Teresa’s work didn’t go unnoticed. In 1979, she won the Nobel Peace Prize—not for politics or grand speeches, but for what the committee called “work undertaken in the struggle to overcome poverty and distress.” She accepted it in her sari, no fuss, and used the prize money—about $192,000—to build more homes. I love that about her—she didn’t care for the spotlight; she cared about what it could do. Over the years, she got other awards too—India’s Padma Shri, the U.S. Medal of Freedom—but she’d shrug them off, saying the real reward was in the people she helped.
She kept at it into her 80s, even as her health faded—heart problems, pneumonia, a fall that broke bones. She’d step back from leading the Missionaries in 1990, handing it to Sister Nirmala, but she never really stopped. On September 5, 1997, she died in Calcutta at 87, surrounded by her nuns. The world mourned—heads of state sent condolences, streets filled with people honoring her. India gave her a state funeral, a rare nod to a non-politician, because she’d become part of the nation’s fabric.
The Impact Today
Her legacy’s still alive. The Missionaries of Charity run over 5,000 centers worldwide—hospices, schools, soup kitchens—sticking to her simple mission. I’ve visited one in my city, a small house where nuns care for elderly folks who’ve got nowhere else. It’s quiet, no frills, but there’s a warmth there that’s hard to miss—her spirit in action. Volunteers still join, inspired by her example, and donations keep it going, though they don’t chase big budgets. It’s not about scale; it’s about presence—being there for the forgotten, just like she was.
The church canonized her in 2016, making her Saint Teresa of Calcutta, after miracles were attributed to her—like a woman healed of a tumor after praying with her relic. That’s a big deal for Catholics, but even without the saint title, her impact’s undeniable. She’s inspired countless people—me included—to think about what goodness looks like. I’ve started small because of her—helping at a food bank, checking on a neighbor—because she showed it doesn’t take much to matter.
What We Can Learn
Mother Teresa’s life wasn’t flashy—she didn’t have wealth or power—but she had something stronger: a focus on others. I think that’s the takeaway. She saw people—not their status, not their past—and met them where they were. She wasn’t perfect; she had limits, doubts, critics. But she kept going, driven by a belief that every life counts. That’s stuck with me—how she turned faith into action, not with grand plans but with daily choices.
Her work challenges us too. In a world obsessed with stuff—phones, cars, likes on social media—she’s a reminder to look up, to see who’s around us. Maybe it’s not about moving to a slum, but about noticing the small needs—a friend who’s struggling, a stranger who could use a hand. I’ve tried that lately—bringing coffee to a coworker who’s swamped, listening when someone needs to vent—and it’s simple but real, like her approach.
A Legacy of Goodness
Mother Teresa’s story is one of a woman who gave everything to a cause she believed in. From a girl in Skopje to a nun in Calcutta, she built a life around helping others—starting with nothing, ending with a global network of care. She faced poverty head-on, not with big fixes but with steady love, and that’s what made her special. Her goodness wasn’t loud—it was in the quiet moments, the hands she held, the lives she touched.
As I’ve dug into her life for this post, I’ve felt that pull—to do a little more, to care a little deeper. She’s not here anymore, but her work is, carried on by people who’ve caught her vision. It’s a legacy that doesn’t fade—a call to look beyond ourselves, to find purpose in the small stuff. Mother Teresa showed us what goodness can do, one person at a time, and I hope her story nudges you, like it has me, to keep that spirit alive.
