She is standing in front of the Mother’s Day display at the drugstore — the spinning rack of pink and gold, the ones that say First Mom, Best Friend — and she reaches out, almost by reflex, for the card she would have chosen.
Then she remembers.
Maybe you know this moment. Maybe you have stood in that same aisle, hand extended toward something that no longer exists, caught between the woman you were — the one who had a mother to buy for — and the one you are now.
Mother’s Day arrives whether we are ready or not. The world decorates around us. Brunches are planned. Flowers are ordered. And somewhere inside the celebration, quiet as a held breath, is the grief of those of us who are motherless.
Not everyone understands this word. Motherless sounds like something that belongs to childhood. But grief does not care how old you were when she died, or how complicated the love was, or how long ago it happened. What it knows is this: she was your mother. And now she is not here.
When a mother dies, something particular goes with her — the version of you she held. She was the keeper of the story of your beginning. She remembered the things you have forgotten about yourself. The small braveries. The early heartbreaks. The person you were before you had language to describe yourself. No one else carries that story now.
This is what we are grieving, underneath the grief. Not only her — but the self she witnessed.
If Mother’s Day this year feels more like an ambush than a celebration, that is not a sign that something is wrong with you. It is a sign that you loved her. Grief is love with nowhere to go on a day that was designed entirely for her.
So go gently. You do not have to perform okayness. You do not have to avoid the card aisle, or stay off social media, or explain yourself to anyone.
You can light a candle. Serve her favorite food. Say her name out loud to someone who knew her. Hold a photograph and let yourself remember — not the loss, but her.
She is still your mother. You are still her child. That relationship did not end. It changed form. And on this particular Sunday in May, that quiet, enduring love is worth honoring — even through tears.
Especially through tears.
If this found you in a tender place, I’m glad you’re here. There is more waiting for you — reflections, guidance, and honest companionship for the grief journey. Browse the blog, or join my readers list below to receive new pieces gently delivered to your inbox.