Permission To Struggle on Mother’s Day💜

If you’ve lost or grown distant from your mom, never had one (or had a bad one) or struggled to become a mom yourself whether at all or again. Or even being a blended family when your kid(s) are maybe not with you on this day for whatever reason. Mother’s Day can bring up some complicated feelings.

This Mother’s Day didn’t quite start off as planned. And that’s the truth for more of us than we say out loud. For anyone grieving, breaking, remembering, or simply making it through the day, this reflection is for you.

As I write this it’s 1:00 a.m. on Mother’s Day and I’m sitting in a too quiet luxurious hotel room with a baby sleeping on me and a lump of sadness sitting heavy in my chest.

I was supposed to be luxuriating.

Instead, I’m unraveling.

The ocean waves outside sound like my rushing thoughts. I didn’t think this day would hit me this hard, not again. But here I am. Trying to make sense of the softness and the sorrow, the celebration and the silence. Trying to mother myself, while mothering everyone else.

After seven consecutive pregnancy losses. Yes, seven, it’s needless to say, I yearned for this day and felt I earned this day. I used to fantasize about it and picture it. A soft Sunday glow. My baby girl’s gummy smile. Brunch with my baby and my name finally spoken aloud in the sacred language as Charlie’s mama.

We lost twins the month before she made was her way into my womb. Our rainbow. Our redemption. I thought I’d never have another “first Mother’s Day,” but with every child comes a new version of you. Every baby is your first baby again but in a different universe, a different season, a different skin. And this time, I am mothering with all of me, the broken parts, the bold parts, boundless love.

Our answered prayer. I waited so long to be celebrated as mom again. To feel joy without shadows.

But this day, this year, still hurts.

And yet still… my soul aches.

Three years ago, my mother was placed in a skilled nursing facility. Due to years of a closeted battle with alcoholism that one day suddenly stole her body, then her brain. She was once a firecracker in a sundress, confident, feminine, radiant and magnetic. She raised me with red lipsticks, high heels, strong shoulders and a fiest like no other. I am her echo.

But when she started slipping away, I had to make a choice. I was dealing with a boat load of drama and trauma, like clawing my way out of a much needed divorce from an abusive marriage while simultaneously growing my new healthy and non toxic relationship, trying to keep tending to my kids in the way they are used to all while struggling to keep my own spirit intact. I wanted to care for her, but I needed to care for me. So I did what the flight attendants say, I put my own oxygen mask on first.

And still… the guilt finds me.

I sent her flowers this week, after a long cry in the bed while my baby slept. Looked through some old photos of her. Remembered her style. Her laugh. Her deep love for my children. She would have abundantly adored this sweet new baby of mine. My glittery little sunbeam who looks like me but belongs to herself. My mom would have called her “sassy and divine” just like her nana.

But she’s not here. She’ll probably never be here. And no beachside brunch will fix it.

I should’ve known when I felt that familiar twinge of sadness creep in around the edges on my stomach where I hold all my grief. I did all the things. I went to therapy, he made weekend plans, we packed cute outfits for our staycation at a fancy Coronado beach resort. But by the time Saturday night rolled around, my whole being on the inside felt like a skydiving incident gone wrong. In my mind I was smooth sailing and then my parachute got tangled, I was going down too fast, crashed and hit the pavement.

I could not find my only pair of sunglasses, my $600 LV pair. My hair wasn’t giving and desperately needed to be done. My body felt like a stranger, again. I felt frumpy, frustrated, fragile. My man forgot the breast pump. We were late for check in. I was flustered.

Then a text from a relative hit me sideways. They visited my mom without telling me. Asked why I hadn’t done more to “get her out.” Like I haven’t sacrificed everything to keep my head above water. Like I haven’t been carrying the weight of this loss in my chest for three damn years. Like I don’t already question myself about it every day.

They didn’t ask about her condition. My mom has early onset dementia. Epilepsy. Hypertension. Psychosis. She refuses meds. She’s not coming home. They didn’t ask how I was holding up. They just laid the blame.

But I still let that comment crack me open.

After we got to the hotel, things were touch and go. My partner and I had a nice evening but then we had a small argument. So here I am, nursing resentment alongside my child, writing this blog while the rest of the world sleeps.

I’m supposed to be relaxing. But instead, I’m unpacking everything I’ve been carrying:

• The loss of my mom, without the closure.

• The joy of my baby, with the pain of everything it took to get her here.

• The pressure to be okay today, when I’m just not.

I took a depression screening earlier. It was positive.

I knew that already. Postpartum sucks sometimes.

I thought this Mother’s Day would feel like something.

But Mother’s Day feels like a scam in general if you don’t protect your peace. It’s just one more performance we’re expected to smile through while still being every f*cking thing to everyone.

But what about when we don’t feel like celebrating?

What about the days that don’t fit the Hallmark version?

Today was supposed to be about joy.

Instead, it became a reckoning.

Because the truth is, there are no real days off. Not for moms. Not for the ones holding the world together with one hand and feeding a baby with the other.

I know tomorrow might be better. Or maybe it won’t.

Maybe I’ll cry. Maybe I’ll laugh. Maybe I’ll just be.

And that will be enough.

To the mamas like me who are a little messy in the middle, grieving while grateful, stretched thin while still standing, I see you and I’m with you.

This is for all of us who mother with our whole hearts, even when they’re breaking.

Even when no one packs the pump.

Even when no one remembers our losses.

Even when our own mothers are just… gone.

I mustered up the strength to carry on and ended up enjoying my Mother’s Day with my baby and my partner because I deserved it. We were with friends which made it more sweet. We enjoyed a decedent feast, the perfect weather and my baby fell asleep on my chest while staring at the sparkling ocean waves. Then we came home and the boys did too, they came in our room with smiles bright as Christmas lights looking so proud of the flowers and card they thoughtfully picked out and purchased with their own money. My youngest boy made me a digital drawing that he texted me first thing in the morning. My bonus daughter brought me a sweet gift and I know even though they are not here my bonus boys are thinking of me too. I couldn’t be more thankful for having such good kids on this day, it really helped bring everything into perspective on what Mother’s Day is about for me which is feeling loved and appreciated because oftentimes as moms we don’t feel it’s reciprocal but on this day I am reminded that it is.

I know next year will be another mental struggle but I learned from this one. I will continue to protect my peace, heart and mind. I will look for joy and gratitude in every moment even when sorrow and pain exist. I’m thankful for my partner, my children, my mother and God giving me the gift of being a mom. Being a mom isn’t just by having biological children, it’s mothering a family no matter how that looks.

One piece of solid advice I received from my weekly CALM email newsletter on permission to struggle:

Here are three tips to take care of yourself today:

💜Stay off socials (trust us on this one)

💜Lean on your people (you know who they are)

💜Say no (do what you actually want or need)

And if you’re a mom yourself, we know today can come with a whole lot of obligations and expectations. Pour into your own cup. Say no. Don’t feel like going out or doing something for your MIL? Don’t!

And if you’re not acknowledging Mother’s Day, all of the above tips still apply. Carry on.