My mother passed away a few days before Mother’s Day, in 2004. At the time, it all felt like a cruel sequence of events, burying my mother the day before Mother’s Day. I just wanted the week to end, so I could try to find a new sense of normal, one that didn’t, and would never, include my mother.
Fast forward to Mother’s Day one year later. I no longer had a mother, and I wasn’t a mother. It was my least favorite day of the year, tied perhaps only by the anniversary of her death. From 2005 through 2011, the day was a bitter reminder of what I no longer had, and what I was not.
I learned after a year or two to avoid the greeting card section in stores. Entire magazines dedicated to mothers were thrown in the trash, unread. I often stayed home from church, because even my church, as sensitive as it is, would rightfully mention the day, as they should. For many women, it’s a day that should be celebrated, and their role should be honored.
I just wasn’t part of that group. I had nothing to celebrate. The day held nothing for me. The day wasn’t for me.
It became much worse with the advent of social media. Suddenly the reminders were everywhere. People would post inspirational memes like, “Home is where Mom is,” or “I’ve never known love until I had a child,” or “To the world, you are a mother. To a family, you are the world,” and on and on and on. And they are all nice, valid statements. But they didn’t apply to me because I didn’t have a mother, and I wasn’t a mother.
People tried to take the sting out of the wound. I had wonderful women in my life who acted like mothers, and I’ve been blessed with my amazing Aunt Millie, my mother’s sister, who feels very much like a mother to me. But there were still holes — empty spaces of what I lost and of what I had not become.
In 2012, I finally celebrated Mother’s Day. I had a one-month-old little boy who was not sleeping, dealing with all kinds of dietary issues we hadn’t yet figured out, and had a case of colic that made even our doctor scratch his head. But to me, the day still felt miraculous. Finally, I was one of them. I was invited to join in the celebration. I belonged again.
Isn’t that sad?
As someone who now has two reasons to celebrate, I want to do just that. I want to celebrate my beautiful children — one by birth, one by adoption, both equally loved. I want to celebrate my role in their lives, and I want to use the day to remind myself of how truly blessed I am.
But I also want to be careful what I say, to others and on social media, and how I say it. Because for every person who has a reason to celebrate the day, there’s another one who is just trying to make it through Mother’s Day with as few tears as possible.
Maybe they are like I was — without a mother or someone to call me their mother. Maybe they have their mother but their own womb and arms are still empty, after years and years of trying. Maybe we don’t know how their hopes rose with the positive pregnancy test, only to have it crushed in miscarriage a few weeks or months later.
Maybe they have a mother, but their mother abandoned them. Or maybe their memories of their own mother are full of pain and hurt and questions. Maybe the grave is full and their heart is shattered. Maybe their story is difficult and hard, and we unintentionally rub salt in their gaping wounds when we publicly post something that privately crushes them.
I loved my mother, and I love my children, and I understand our desire to talk about it. I’ve shared my joys on social media on Mother’s Day in the past, and I probably will again. But I want to remain mindful of those who are in a hard season. I want to be a safe place, not a source of hurt. I want to be a refuge, not an assailant.
For those who are hurting on Mother’s Day. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I would send you all flowers and chocolate if I could, because that’s what you deserve. You are worth it. You matter, and you belong. May this Mother’s Day hold more healing than hurt, more joy than tears, and may you find peace in your journey. And this Mother’s Day, wherever you are, I celebrate you.
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