Mother’s Day Without My Mom: What 50 Years Has Taught Me

I’ve learned that Mother’s Day doesn’t arrive quietly. It tends to show up early and on shelves, in commercials, in school projects, and in social media posts that feel impossible to escape.

I lost my mom when I was 7 AND I was also born on a Mother’s Day, so it’s a uniquely loaded day for me. There’s a particular kind of emotional whiplash that can come with trying to let others celebrate you for your birthday while you’re privately navigating the weight of Mother’s Day.

Last year, when my birthday fell on Mother’s Day again, it was a real struggle. I wanted to receive love and celebration, and at the same time I felt raw and deeply aware of what was missing. And I made a very conscious decision: I needed to be with my mom that day, on Mother’s Day and on my birthday.

It may sound a bit morbid, but it didn’t feel that way to me. I took my three children on what I can only describe as a small pilgrimage to the town where my mother is buried. We visited her gravesite together. I was able to show my kids where she grew up, holding a few special (and limited) memories I have, and letting them stand with me in that place.

My children never got to meet my mom, and she never got to meet them. She didn’t get to see who they would become. She missed the milestones, the birthdays, the school years, the everyday moments that make up a life. And somehow, being there with them made that ache both sharper and softer at the same time. It was a reminder of what’s been missed and a quiet way of saying, you still belong in our story.

My kids were my rock that weekend. I couldn’t have done it without them, without their steadiness, their presence, their willingness to walk into something tender with me. And in the middle of that uniquely loaded day, I felt a small shift: not that the grief disappeared, but that I wasn’t carrying it alone.

And this year carries even more. It marks 50 years since my mom died. That’s an anniversary no one wants, because it isn’t just about time passing. It’s about the lifetime of moments she hasn’t been here for.

Some years I can’t even face Mother’s Day. Other years, I’m able to focus on my own children, and that connection fills my soul. Both experiences are true. If that “both/and” is your experience too, I want you to know you’re not broken. You’re grieving.

If You’ve Survived Mother’s Day Before, You Can Survive It Again

Here are a few things that have helped me, especially across the years when the day felt too heavy.

1) Decide what kind of day you’re having (before the day decides for you)

Sometimes the most compassionate thing you can do is name it:

• “This is a low-expectation year.”

• “I’m going to keep it simple.”

• “I’m going to do one meaningful thing and that’s enough.”

2) Give yourself permission to opt out

You are allowed to skip brunch. You are allowed to avoid the store aisles. You are allowed to step back from social media. You are allowed to say, “Not this year.” Protecting your heart is not selfish.

3) Create a small ritual that feels true

Ritual doesn’t have to be big to be powerful. It can be as simple as:

• lighting a candle

• writing your mom a letter (even if she’s gone)

• visiting a place that holds her memory (a gravesite, a hometown, a park, a church)

• playing a song that connects you to her

• making something she loved or something you loved together

There’s no “right” way. The right way is the one that helps you feel grounded and connected, even if it’s bittersweet.

4) Plan support the way you’d plan logistics

Mother’s Day can be a trigger, even decades later. Support can be practical:

• schedule something grounding for the morning

• pre-plan who you’ll text if the grief hits hard

• book a therapy session for the week before or after

• give a trusted person a heads-up: “This week is tender for me.”

5) Let it be “both/and” if you’re a mother

If you have children, Mother’s Day can hold two truths at once: missing your mom and loving your role as a mom. Some years, focusing on my children genuinely fills my soul. Other years, the grief is louder. Neither experience makes you ungrateful. It makes you human.

6) If people want to celebrate you, tell them what would actually help

If your birthday overlaps Mother’s Day, or if Mother’s Day is simply hard, it’s okay to guide people:

• “I’d love a quiet dinner, not a big event.”

• “Can we celebrate my birthday on a different day this year?”

• “What I really need is something gentle, time together, no pressure.”

7) Remember: anniversaries can intensify everything

Big grief anniversaries can land in the body, not just the mind. If this is a milestone year for you, 5 years, 10 years, 50 years, please be extra gentle with yourself. The waves aren’t a setback. They’re grief asking to be witnessed.

If Mother’s Day Hurts, You Don’t Have to Do It Alone

Mother loss can echo for a lifetime. If you’ve been white knuckling your way through this season year after year, support can change everything.

Motherless Daughters Group Therapy

• Tuesdays | 7:00–8:15 PM | Zoom (Online) - Texas Statewide

• Wednesdays | 7:00–8:15 PM | North Office - Austin, TX

• $50 per session

I also offer individual therapy for mother loss if you prefer a private space to go deeper at your own pace.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “This is me,” I’d be honored to support you.