Mother’s Day shows up the same way every year.
It fills the store aisles with pink cards and pastel flowers, clogs social media feeds with smiling photos and long captions, and loudly reminds us what the day is supposed to look like.
For a lot of people, it’s exactly that. It’s breakfast in bed and handmade cards, church pews filled with families sitting shoulder to shoulder, and a table somewhere set for celebrating. But not everyone pulls up a chair.
Some people scroll past the photos a little faster that day, or stay off social media altogether. Some keep themselves busy on purpose, filling the hours so they don’t have to sit too long with what’s missing.
Because the truth is, Mother’s Day doesn’t feel the same for everyone.
For some, it’s a quiet ache where a mom used to be – a number still saved in a phone that won’t ring again and a voice you can almost hear if you close your eyes long enough.
For others, it’s more complicated than that. Not every relationship fits neatly into a greeting card aisle. Sometimes love exists, but it looks different than we expected, shaped by the distance of miles, of time, or of things that were never said.
And sometimes, it’s both.
I feel that in my own life more these days. My oldest lives a few hours away now, building a life of her own. As she finds her footing in adulthood, I’m learning what it looks like to step back a little – how my advice isn’t needed or wanted in the same way it once was. I miss the days of lucky pigtails before softball games, the routines that felt constant and close. At the same time, I catch myself wishing she lived just down the road while knowing the space between us is part of who she’s becoming.
That push and pull is its own kind of motherhood, a reminder that even the relationships we hold closest can shift and stretch over time.
I think about that when I look back, too. My mom was career-driven, always working, always moving forward. She taught me that it was okay for women to be both excellent at their careers and present when they can be. I can still picture her in her uniform, yelling from the stands at my soccer games.
Our story didn’t look like everyone else’s, but I was lucky in a different way. My maternal grandparents lived with us for most of my childhood, and my grandmother Shirley filled in the spaces in between. She helped handle everything from potty training and training wheels to middle school angst and teenage boyfriend drama – all with patience and humor that felt endless at the time.
She passed a few years ago, and I still miss her stories, her laugh, and that steady sense of humor that carried us through so much.
It’s a lot to hold in one Sunday.
What doesn’t get said enough is that it’s okay if you don’t celebrate the way the world tells you to. It’s okay if your version of the day is quieter. If it’s a phone call instead of a visit, a memory instead of a meal, or simply getting through the day and letting that be enough.
There isn’t one right way to carry this. And maybe that’s where the meaning is, too.
Because even in the complicated spaces, there is still something steady about motherhood – whether it’s something you received, something you’re giving, or something you’re still figuring out in real time.
For me, it shows up in the small, everyday moments. The packed lunches, the car rides, the conversations that happen somewhere between “How was your day?” and bedtime. The ones I have to squeeze in around my own busy career, trying not to let the guilt of the transition from staying home to working constantly drown me. It’s not always picture-perfect, but it’s real, and it’s mine to build.
Maybe that’s what this day can be, if we let it – not just a celebration of what was or what should have been, but a quiet recognition of what is.
So if you’re someone who sits this day out, in whatever way that looks like, you’re not alone.
There’s more of us than you might think, and there’s space for all of it here.
