Mother's Day and Grief: However This Day Lands for You

Mother's Day.

A day of "shoulds" for many.

You "should" be happy. You "should" be celebrating. Your Mum "should" still be here. You "should" be able to call yourself a Mum by now. You "should" have your child with you today. Your relationship with your Mum "should" feel simple and warm and card-aisle easy.

I'm sorry if today holds some of those "shoulds" for you.

I also want to say, before Sunday arrives, that I understand this as a human, not only as a grief professional.

There have been years when my own relationship with my Mum was strained, and the whole day felt like a performance I couldn't quite pull off. Years where I was quietly in the thick of fertility uncertainty, wondering whether Mother's Day would ever be one I got to participate in as a Mum myself. Years where the loss of my Nanna was so present, so loud, that the day just ached.

And I work with many mothers whose children have died. I want to say that plainly, because it deserves to be said plainly: that is a particular kind of agony at this time of year. To be a mother, without your child here. Many of them choose to flee, or to bunker down. To book a flight, get in the car, and go somewhere the flower displays and the Instagram posts can't quite reach them. That is not avoidance. That is self-protection. And it makes complete sense.

Children in Nature

This day lands differently for a lot of people

Not a few. A lot.

🪷 Those whose Mum has died, and who will feel her absence loudly this Sunday.

🪷 Those who are yearning to be a Mum, and for whom this day is a quiet, persistent ache.

🪷 Those who have experienced fertility struggles or perinatal loss carrying a grief that so often goes unseen and unnamed.

🪷 Those navigating a strained or complicated relationship with their Mum, where the card aisle doesn't quite fit.

🪷 Those whose Mum is still here, but changed, whether it's because of illness, distance, or some other reason. Grieving a version of her you once knew.

🪷 Those whose child has died, or whose child is unwell. The mothers who will sit quietly with that this Sunday, or rage loudly at the absolute unfairness of it.

🪷 Those in the thick of postpartum, where the day might feel more heavy than celebrated.

🪷 And those who hold their own grief quietly, even while the people around them are enjoying the day.

If you look around any room on Sunday, someone in it is carrying one of these things.

What we know about days like this

Grief doesn't operate on a calendar, but it does respond to one.

Significant dates, anniversaries, holidays, and days that hold cultural weight have a way of pulling grief forward. Even grief we thought we'd settled into. There's a reason the days before can feel harder than the day itself. The bracing, the anticipatory dread, the low hum of something approaching. If you're already feeling it this week, that makes complete sense. Your nervous system is doing exactly what it's supposed to do.

Having some awareness of what's coming, and a little intention around how you'll meet it, can genuinely help.

So, how might you go gently?

I often talk with people about the value of having a plan. Not because grief can be managed into submission, but because a little intention creates a little breathing room.

What does this day mean for you? And how might you move through it?

Sometimes going gently looks like doing something intentional, visiting a grave, cooking something that reminds you of someone, lighting a candle, giving yourself full permission to cry.

Sometimes it looks like doing nothing at all, opting out of the brunch, turning off social media, letting the day pass quietly.

Sometimes it's leaning on a person who gets it. Someone who doesn't need you to be okay.

Sometimes it's having an escape plan, knowing you can leave the family gathering if you need to, having your car keys, giving yourself permission to go.

And sometimes, it's just saying to yourself in advance: this might be hard, and that is okay.

If you're supporting someone who is grieving this Mother's Day

You don't need to fix anything or find the perfect words.

Simply acknowledging it. I know this one isn't easy for you, can mean the world to someone who is used to carrying their grief quietly while everyone else celebrates around them. You don't have to make it a big conversation. Just let them know you see them.

Grief and love are, in so many ways, the same thing. The weight of a day like this exists because someone, or something, mattered deeply. That is not a problem to be solved. It is love, doing what love does.

However Sunday lands for you, you're allowed to feel all of it, and please know that I'm thinking of you. 🪷

If the lead-up to Mother's Day is feeling particularly heavy and you'd like some support, please don't hesitate to reach out. You don't have to carry this alone.

You're welcome to get in touch or book a session here.