Mother’s Day Without a Mother

Mother’s Day Without a Mother

Mother’s Day never used to be controversial for me. It was just a Sunday we always spent at my parents’ house, doing whatever my mom wanted. Usually eating something she loved, lounging in the kitchen or backyard, talking about life and the latest family drama. It was easy to celebrate her—she was the definition of what a traditional mother was. She put her family first in everything. She followed my dad around the country for his military career, stayed home to raise and homeschool three kids (which is a full-time job times a thousand), and made sure our lives were filled with love, structure, and grace.

She didn't start focusing on her own goals until later in life—not because she wasn’t capable, but because she poured herself into us without hesitation. And she never complained. Not once. If she ever had moments of “what if,” she didn’t let on. She was just... content. She allowed life to unfold, and she rolled with it like it was her superpower.

When we grew up and left the house, that’s when she started doing more for herself. She went back to school and got her associate’s degree in accounting (numbers—ugh, not my thing, but she loved them). She even landed a work-from-home job that made her feel fulfilled and accomplished. She was such a badass example of what it means to flow with life, to choose joy, and to show up for the people you love without losing yourself completely. To her, the time and attention she dedicated to us wasn't a waste, it was just a season of her life. And I think we were lucky to have had that version of a mother.

And then she was gone.

The first Mother’s Day without her was the week after she died. I mean... what kind of cosmic joke is that? Sunday, May 7th: she passes. Sunday, May 14th: oh hey, here’s Mother’s Day—surprise, you no longer have one. I refused to acknowledge it. That whole week was a fog, and I didn’t have the capacity to hold space for a holiday I could no longer participate in the way I used to.

The second Mother’s Day came and went. I didn’t even flinch. I think I just numbed myself to it completely. People talk about how Mother’s Day is for all kinds of moms—stepmoms, mother figures, those who long to be mothers, those who have lost children—and while I fully agree, none of that comforted me. Because all I could feel was that my mom was gone. And it just felt unfair. (shout out to all the businesses that ask if people want to be unsubscribed from Mother's Day marketing. This was definitely something I took advantage of.)

This year, though… I’m trying to shift my perspective. Not because the pain is gone. Not because I suddenly feel healed. But because I’m starting to realize that just because she’s not physically here doesn’t mean she’s not still worth celebrating. Nothing about the meaning of the day has changed for me—I still had a bomb ass mom who made me who I am. She’s still the voice I hear in my head when I make decisions. I see her in the way I process things, in the way I speak, in my values. I see her in the mirror sometimes too, which is both comforting and kind of spooky.

I’ll never stop grieving her. And honestly, I don’t want to. That grief is the price of love, and I’d pay it over and over if it meant I got to have her for the time that I did. But I’m learning that I can carry both the ache of missing her and the joy of remembering her. I can let the pain be there, but also give myself permission to celebrate her life—not just her death.

So if you’re someone who’s dreading this day, who wants to scream at the Hallmark commercials and hide under the covers, please know this: you’re not wrong for feeling that way. You don’t have to romanticize it. You don’t have to smile through it. You’re allowed to sit in the mess of it. You’re allowed to not be okay.

Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, and Mother’s Day doesn’t get to dictate your emotions.

Maybe this year you want to light a candle. Or scroll past every Mother's Day post in silence. Or write your mom a letter you’ll never send. Maybe you want to bake her favorite dessert or go somewhere she loved. Or maybe you just want to survive the day, one hour at a time. All of that is valid.

Here are a few gentle ways you can honor your mom, if and only if it feels right for you:

• Write her a note: Tell her what you’d say if you could call her today. No filter.

• Make her recipe: Cook or bake something that reminds you of her. Let the smells bring her closer.

• Visit a place she loved: A park, a bookstore, the beach—anywhere that feels like her.

• Wear something of hers: Jewelry, a shirt, even perfume. Sometimes we need a little physical reminder.

• Start a new tradition: A walk, a donation in her name, planting flowers. It doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s celebration.

And if you can’t do any of that? That’s okay too.

“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” — A.A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh)

Mother’s Day will always carry a different weight now. But if you feel anything like me, your mom is still deeply present. She’s in your choices, your memories, your laughter. She’s in the way you love others and the way you’re learning to love yourself through the pain.

So, this one’s for the children without their moms, who feel it extra heavy when May rolls around. We’re still their daughters and sons. And they’re still worth honoring, in our own time and in our own way.

And if no one has told you this today: I see you. I’m proud of you. Your grief is valid. Your love is forever. And you’re doing better than you think.