Mother’s Day has a way of arriving quietly and loudly at the same time.
It shows up in pastel cards lined up at the store, in school-made crafts tucked into backpacks, in the question your husband asks: “What do you want for Mother’s Day?”
And while there is so much to celebrate, so much to hold, there is also something else. Something unseen. Something that sits just beneath the surface.
For some of us, Mother’s Day carries both joy and grief in the same breath.
Before I became a mother to the children I hold in my arms, I was a mother in a quieter way. A way that didn’t come with photos or milestones or first words. A way that existed in hope, in anticipation, and in loss.
There were pregnancies that ended before I ever got to hear a heartbeat for long. Dreams that began to form and then dissolved just as quickly. Moments where I imagined who they would be, only to be left with empty hands and a full heart.
And the world kept moving.
Mother’s Day still came. Flowers were still given. Brunch reservations were still made. Social media filled with smiling photos and matching outfits. And I remember wondering where that left me.
Was I a mother?
The answer, I’ve learned, is yes. But it took time to believe it.
Loss has a way of complicating what should feel simple. It adds layers to days that are meant to be light. It asks you to hold space for what is and what isn’t, all at once.
Now, as I celebrate Mother’s Day with my daughters—four beautiful girls who fill my home with noise, laughter, and life—I still feel it. That quiet undercurrent. That remembering.
It doesn’t take away from the joy. But it sits beside it.
There are moments in the middle of the day when I pause. When I look at them and feel overwhelming gratitude, and at the same time, I think of the ones who made me a mother first. The ones who changed me before anyone else ever called me “Mama.”
Grief doesn’t disappear. It softens. It reshapes itself. It becomes something you carry differently.
Mother’s Day, after loss, is not just about being celebrated. It’s about remembering every version of motherhood you’ve lived.
It’s about honoring the woman you were in those quiet, uncertain moments. The one who hoped. The one who grieved. The one who kept going.
It’s about recognizing that motherhood is not defined only by what can be seen.
So if this day feels complicated for you, you’re not alone.
If you find yourself smiling one moment and swallowing a lump in your throat the next, that’s okay.
If you hold your children a little tighter while also thinking of the ones you never got to meet, that’s okay too.
There is room for all of it.
Joy and grief can coexist. Celebration and remembrance can share the same space.
And you, in all of your experiences, in all of your versions of motherhood, are worthy of being honored.
Today and always.
