Mother’s Day began with a small win: we made it to church on time, despite the usual chaos and a bit of bickering in the car. I smiled, grateful for the effort it took just to get there. After service, we joined the crowd gathering at the picture backdrop. It felt like the thing to do, to capture the day and make the memory. But as we stood in line, inching forward, the joy around me started to sting.
I saw moms holding babies, grandmothers wrapped in hugs, generations lined up, smiling wide. And then the ache came rushing in. My mom’s been gone three years now, and still, these moments catch me off guard. I felt it rising in my throat, that familiar lump of love and loss. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now? But grief doesn’t tell time. It doesn’t soften just because the calendar says it should.
So I took a breath, blinked back the welling tears and quietly stepped out of line. My kids looked at me, confused at first, then shrugged and followed without complaint, likely relieved, maybe, to skip the posed smile. And honestly, I was relieved too. That photo wasn’t meant to be ours this year.
Some Mother’s Days are for standing in line, for big smiles and sweet photos. Others are for just making it through, for honoring who’s missing and for letting your heart be as tender as it needs to be. This year, mine needed space and I gave it that.
There’s a quiet weight I carry in the space between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, a stretch of time that feels tender in ways words often fail to capture. As a single mom, these weeks are a blend of joy and ache. My children’s love fills my heart in the most beautiful ways, yet there’s an undeniable echo of what’s missing. I celebrate all that I give, every role I fill, but I also feel the absence, the one I never signed up to face alone. These days remind me not just of what I am, but of what I’ve had to become.
On Mother’s Day, the world expects moms to feel celebrated, to be surrounded by love and gratitude. But when you’re doing it alone, it’s just…I don’t know, different.
But then, there’s also the grief. The absence of my own parents. My mom who passed a few years ago just before Mother’s Day, especially, makes this day sting just a little more. I think about how I thought I’d be celebrating motherhood with her by my side, sharing stories and memories, maybe even getting advice on this parenting journey. Instead, I’m navigating it without them and sometimes that feels like an overwhelming gap that nothing can fill.
And then Father’s Day arrives, a day that always feels a little more complicated for me as a single mom. My dad passed away just before Father’s Day years ago, and he never got the chance to meet my children. That loss hits a little harder this time of year, making the day not just about what’s missing for them, but also for me. I want to protect my kids from feeling the weight of that, but it’s hard not to feel it myself. On Father’s Day, I sometimes sit in the space between celebrating the good, loving people in my kids’ lives and mourning the people who should have been there, too.
What I’m learning sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once, is that it’s okay for these days to unfold differently than I once imagined. It’s okay to loosen my grip on the picture-perfect version of motherhood and family I used to chase. There’s room here for both joy and ache, for laughter in one moment and quiet tears in the next. I’m learning to let the celebration and the sorrow sit side by side and somehow, that makes the love even deeper.
I’ve started to accept that Mother’s Day isn’t going to be the day I imagined, with grand gestures or the comfort of my own mom being around. It’s okay if it’s quieter than I expected. It’s okay if I find myself needing a few moments alone or shedding a few tears for the people who should be here but aren’t. But I also remind myself to find joy in the small moments, the handmade cards, the sweet hugs, the love my kids give me in their own ways. It may not be perfect, but it’s enough. And I am enough.
So yes, the space between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day carries this quiet, complicated weight, a blend of love, grief, gratitude and what-ifs. It’s a time that reminds me just how different life looks from what I once imagined. I’m doing my best to move through it. I show up for my kids, even on the hard days. I honor the grief of losing my parents and I embrace the deep joy of being a mom.
