A Motherless Mother's Day

This is NOT the post I planned!

Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash

And now, I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd of had to miss the dance-The Dance, Garth Brooks

This wasn’t the post I planned to write this week.
I had another topic ready to go, complete with research and a rough draft. But I just couldn’t bring myself to finish it. I’ve been in a bit of a funk—sad, quiet, both melancholy and irritable at the same time.

It hit me: this Mother’s Day marks two years to the day since my mom died. Yes—died. Not “passed” or “transitioned” or any of the softer words we sometimes use to cushion the blow. She died. And though time has passed, the grief hasn’t packed up and left. It lingers.

I wrote about her last year in a post called Opting Out of Mother’s Day, so I won’t repeat that story here. But this time, I want to talk about something else: lingering grief—the kind that doesn’t fade so much as it reshapes itself, quietly settling into the corners of our lives.

As we age, loss becomes a more frequent companion. When I was a kid, I was lucky. I didn’t experience death up close until I was in college and my great-grandmother passed away. Now, in my sixties, I’ve lost all my great-aunts and uncles, my grandparents, most of my aunts, my mom, my in-laws, and most of the women who felt like second mothers to me. (My mom had a lot of wonderful friends.)

So the question is: How do we honor those we’ve lost without getting pulled into a cycle of endless sorrow?
How do we live with grief without letting it take over?

I’ll be honest—there’s a big part of me that would be perfectly happy to ignore Mother’s Day altogether. And yet, I also want to honor and celebrate the amazing moms still in my life: my sister, my daughter-in-law, my niece, cousins, and so many dear friends.

I’ve come to realize that the people we’ve lost don’t disappear from our lives—they shift. My mom’s not here to call, but her presence is still everywhere. I hear her voice in my head when I’m making soup or driving home from a road trip, where she always insisted I phone to let her know I arrived safely.

I find her in the things she taught me, the advice she gave that I once rolled my eyes at but now secretly follow. She’s in the way I show up for others, in the way I mother—even though I’m not a biological mom, I’ve taken on that role in more ways than I ever expected.

So many of us carry these echoes. Our loved ones become a part of our wiring, even when they're no longer part of our everyday lives. That’s the strange comfort of grief—it may fade, but it never leaves us entirely because it’s tied to love. And love doesn't end just because a life does.

And yet, this can feel so lonely. If you're reading this and you've lost your mom—or anyone who shaped you—you’re not alone. I know that on holidays like this, it can feel like the rest of the world is posting brunch photos and flower arrangements while you’re just trying to breathe through a wave of memory. I see you. I am you.

Let’s normalize this: grief doesn’t operate on a timeline. It doesn’t care if it’s been two years, ten years, or twenty. It shows up when it wants—sometimes expected, sometimes not. And on days like Mother’s Day, it tends to knock a little louder.

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash

Still, here’s the part that gives me hope: grief is just love looking for a new home. And we can give it one.
We can write a note to someone who’s grieving. We can tell a story about our mom to a younger generation. We can lift up the moms around us—our friends, sisters, daughters-in-law—because nurturing others helps to heal something in ourselves. Even when the loss still aches.

This Mother’s Day, I’ll light a candle for my mom. I’ll say her name out loud. I’ll scroll past the brunch photos with a smile and maybe a sigh. And I’ll also text a few of the incredible women in my life and remind them how much they matter.

Because we can hold both things at once: sorrow and celebration. Memory and presence. What’s gone and what remains.

If you’re missing your mom this weekend—or any loved one who shaped your life—I hope you’ll take a moment to remember them in your own way. Light a candle. (I am obsessed with candles these days.) Share a story. Say their name. And if you feel like it, I’d love to hear about them. Tell me something they taught you, something funny they used to say, or a moment that still makes you smile. Grief may be universal, but the way we carry it is deeply personal—and sharing helps remind us we’re not alone in the carrying.

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Postscript:

I had just finished writing this post and decided to run a few errands before scheduling it to publish. One stop was our local market, and of course, the front of the store was overflowing with bouquets—it's the Friday before Mother's Day, after all.

Now, my mom loved flowers, especially the kind that lasted a long time in a vase. One of her favorites was alstroemeria because they could last nearly two weeks before fading. When she was still driving, she’d buy two bunches of them every other Friday, without fail.

As I walked into the store today, surrounded by blooms, what did I see? Two bunches of alstroemeria on markdown. Just two. Everything else was full price. And those of you who knew my mom know how much she loved a good bargain.

I swear I could hear her voice in my ear:
"Di, buy the flowers!"

So I did. Hopefully, they’ll last the full two weeks. I know she’s smiling—and probably a little proud I got them on sale. I am not much of a "woo-woo" person, but I do believe our deceased loved ones' "presence" remains. (Is presence the right word?) So, I felt my mom today...exactly when I needed her.

I love you, Mom!

Until next week…

Much love!

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