If you you're Motherless on Mother's Day—I hope knowing that you aren't alone, and reading the thoughts from a fellow motherless woman, can help you feel even a shred of peace.

Though I cannot take away our pain, I can speak into it.

Just when you think you’ve got it all together—along comes Mother’s Day.

For me and many others, for many reasons, Mother’s Day just isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be.

For many people, this day is a heart warming, sappy (in the best way), and exciting. A day where you celebrate your wonderful, caring, and beautiful mom for giving you life and putting up with everything you’ve put her through over the years.

But, for some of us… it isn’t any of that, and maybe it never was.

Maybe your mother passed on, leaving behind only precious, irreplaceable memories. Or maybe she chose something else—addiction, a toxic partner, her own pain—over her family.

Or maybe, she’s still here... but unable to offer the kind of love and safety a mother should.

Whatever the story, Mother’s Day without her brings a tidal wave of emotion.

For us, the day is full of blunt reminders of the memories we've worked hard on shoving away and throwing the covers over. It's full of happiness, smiles, and "Happy Mother's Day!" from folks who don't understand how deep this day cuts.

I've grieved this day, every year now for 15 years.

And yet, somehow, it still hurts like it did that very first time I realized:
The woman who gave me life would never be part of mine—or my children's.

That familiar pit in your stomach? It’s not just you.

I was scrolling through my email the other morning (definitely not the healthiest morning habit... but let’s be real, it’s my habit), and boom—there they were. And right on time.

The swarm of mothers day promos, newsletters, and gift guides rolled in—my heart sank back into the sheets, and some all too familiar feelings swept in.

Grief.
Pain.
Anger.

Regret.
Longing.

Because in my case—she’s still here. But I wouldn't know if she wasn’t.
She didn’t choose me. She chose the next fix.

And for others, it's the painful longing for someone who really was glorious. Whose absence can never be filled. Who made you feel safe and seen, and who is now gone.

Only the Motherless on Mother’s Day know the weight of all of this.

Things only the Motherless on Mother's Day will feel these immense emotions.

The Days Before are Sometimes the Worst.

Whether your mother is physically gone or completely emotionally unavailable, this day doesn’t bring colorful flowers and brunch. It doesn’t bring warmth. 

It brings a void.

Maybe you’ve been carrying this grief for years. Or maybe it’s new. It doesn’t seem to matter how long it’s been—this day has a way of reopening the wound.

The days leading up can be just as brutal.

The shelves fill with “Best Mom Ever” mugs.
Social media feeds flooding with gift ideas and photo carousels of perfect mom moments. Happy families planing brunch, spa days, and days in the spring sun.

And then the day arrives in a bright pastel dress, and loud with joy.

And you're there, eyes welling up, trying not to crack while the world celebrates something you’re grieving.

Maybe your partner still his/her mom—and she’s kind, wonderful, and celebratory. You'll probably still be going to an event. Smiling through it. Being polite, and enjoying bits and pieces, but still feeling like you’re standing on the outside of something you wish you could be fully present for.

That jealousy? That ache? That loneliness?

Don’t feel guilty for it. I feel it too.

That’s grief, babe. And grief? She doesn’t follow rules.

If anything has ever saved me on this day, it’s gratitude for the people I do have—and the people they have.

Watching others I love experience a good, healthy Mother's Day has been its own form of healing. Even when it feels like I’m looking through a window I’ll never get to open.

I try to find peace in the colors. The smells. The flowers. The sugar, thank God for the sugar. 

And if you’re a mother yourself—please, please let yourself be celebrated.

This day is yours, too. Your children still have you—and you are worthy of being honored.

You are not the only Motherless Mother experiencing this day with an aching heart.

So breathe.

Let yourself feel it all. Let yourself be held in your grief.

And tomorrow, when the world moves on, know this:
You made it through the day.
And that, in itself, is everything. That is victory.

Be still. You are not alone in this.

If you need someone to chat with, don't hesitate—itsme@yourfriendhanna.com or send me a message on instagram @your.friend.hanna

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