And We're Doing THIS Again...

Dread. Jealousy. Unfairness. Pain. Envy. Anger. The first tendrils of it start in late April. A casual mention of "Mother's Day" in a store display, an email from Dillard's pushing "the perfect gift," and I feel that familiar clench in my chest. It’s a low hum of anxiety that builds into a full-blown roar by the second Sunday in May.

Mother's Day.

It’s a day the world celebrates with pink bouquets, sentimental commercials, and brunch reservations packed tighter than a rush-hour subway car. A day dedicated to the women who shaped us, who gave us life, who… are here.

My mother isn't.

She’s been gone for twenty-six years now, a gaping hole in my life that refuses to be filled. Some days, the grief is a dull ache, a shadow that follows me. Other days, like Mother's Day, it’s a physical weight, a crushing pressure that makes it hard to breathe. Then there are days that I don't even notice the lack.

I know my friends, aware of my grief, often tread lightly, offering gentle condolences. But even their thoughtfulness can feel like a spotlight on my solitude. There's no card to buy, no gift to choose, no phone call to make. The traditions that once brought joy now serve as painful echoes

Then the well-intentioned inquiries – "What are you doing for your mom?" – feel like a punch to the gut. How do you explain that the person you would celebrate most is now just a memory, a collection of cherished moments that become both a comfort and a source of profound sadness? Do I launch into the story of her infectious laugh, the way she always knew how to make things better, the fierce love that wrapped around me like a warm blanket? Or do I simply offer a tight-lipped, "She's gone"?

For the past couple of years, I don't hide, and I live in my truth and tell them "My mother is dead." The awkward apologies, the pat on the shoulders, the pity in their eyes, then ever so often... someone says "Me too, and we fight tears that always threaten to show."

Social media becomes an unbearable scroll of picture-perfect families, beaming mothers surrounded by adoring children. Each image, while lovely in its own right, underscores my own loss. It's not jealousy I feel, not exactly. It's more of a profound sense of being adrift, a missing piece in a world that seems to revolve around this fundamental relationship.

And I don't have children of my own. Not sure if it's going to happen for me.

This fact, usually a quiet, personal truth, becomes a spotlight on Mother's Day. It's the unspoken question at family gatherings, the well-meaning but agonizing comments from friends: "So, when are you going to start your own family?" or the cheerful, "You'll be a mom someday!"

These aren't malicious. I know that. But they amplify the sense of… otherness. Of being outside the circle of celebration, peering in at a joy that feels both universal and utterly inaccessible to me.

The day itself is a minefield. It's not that I begrudge anyone their happiness. I truly don't. I can even find a bittersweet joy in seeing friends celebrate their mothers, their wives, their own journeys into motherhood. But it's a joy tinged with a profound sadness, a reminder of the unique grief and longing that this day brings for me.

I guess there is no right or wrong way to navigate it. It's a process of learning to live with the absence, of finding ways to honor the memory of a beloved mother while acknowledging the pain of her loss. With each passing year, there's a hope that the day will become a little less painful, a little more bearable. And until then, we hold onto the strength we've gathered along the way, taking each breath at a time, and cherishing the hope that healing, in its own time, will come.

So, what an I going to do on this year?

Some years, I hide. I retreat into the solitude of my apartment, binge-watching movies, ordering takeout, and pretending the world outside doesn't exist. Other years, I try to reclaim the day, to redefine it on my own terms. I might spend it with other women who are also navigating complex relationships with motherhood, chosen or unchosen. I might honor my mother in my own way, visiting her grave, looking at old photos, writing her a letter.

I don't know yet.

But I do know that the dread will come, as reliable as the sunrise. And I'll meet it, as I always do, with a fragile strength, a deep breath, and the quiet hope that one day, maybe, this day won't hurt so much. Until then...

If you are having trouble navigating Mother's Day or any day please feel free to contact us.