Why Mother's Day is complicated.
A repost w/updates about how to hold space for yourself or compassionate space for others on a day of celebration that can also trigger pain.
Last year the title of this post was “What do you do when Mother’s Day gets complicated?” A question I contemplated deeply while holding space for a dear friend who was going to be facing Mother’s Day for the first time as a bereaved mother of her only child.
The updated title better fits what I want to share today: the many reasons this day is difficult for people, seen through the lens of someone who has both needed support and been called to offer it. I’ve added some images and a new section to this updated post as well.
In England, Mother’s Day falls on my birthday, March 10th. I was there in 2011 on a school dance trip with my oldest daughter. That night we were sitting at a table near the entrance of the restaurant when other mothers and their daughters walked by our table and said “happy birthday,” and “Happy Mother’s Day” to me in consecutive order. It felt weird, but in a good way.
In 2002, when someone said Happy Birthday in March or Happy Mother’s Day in May, both expressions either left me in tears or with the residue of weird feelings, but not in a good way. It was in a strange-overly-anxious-walking-around-without-skin way.
But sometimes, I think about myself before I was a mother of three. I was a daughter who was raised by a good mother. Mother’s Day was never complicated then. It was flowers and cards for Mom. It was an acrostic poem spelling out all the ways I loved and appreciated her. Magnificent Outstanding Terrific Heroine Everybody loves Reining supreme (insert images of Wonder Woman and drawings of roses).
But when I became a mother and buried a child, many days became hard days and Mother’s days in May became complicated. I saw myself as a failed and failing mother, and my mother who once held all the wisdom and all powers to make all things right in my world, could not help me.
On finding Käithe Kollwitz
This year in the winter issue of Parabola I was met with the striking sculptural work of the German artist, Käithe Kollwitz. She lost her son, Peter, who was serving as a soldier in Belgium. She created arresting bronze sculptures of grieving mothers with their lost children in response.
I stared at these images for a long time and noticed how the bodies of the children were absorbed into the mother’s body.
The work captures the fresh, demolishing grief I remember. It shows how a grieving mother becomes disfigured. How her pain makes her unrecognizable, even to herself.
Last year on the day before Mother’s Day I said to a grieving friend, “I know Sunday will be difficult.” She replied, “Only the days that end in y are hard.” We both laughed for 5 minutes straight. Isn’t it true? There are times when every single day includes tears.
But I asked myself : Shouldn’t we celebrate life and that we had a hand in supporting a life? Shouldn’t we all celebrate our own mothers for getting us here?
I’ve found that getting to a straight answer is always complicated. I think about this complication a lot because my mothering journey has been no crystal stair, and because I know too many stories of not-so-good mothers and children who become way too unrecognizable and bring more stress than joy.
There are other ways to lose your children while they are still alive. But, I also know too many women who have buried their children. And I know women I love who have carried children they never had a chance to meet. Aren’t they still mothers? Do we say, Happy Mother’s Day to a mom who recently lost her only child?
Bottom line: I have too many friends who will be crying on Sunday.
I want to be clear that all my friends aren’t sad, or spend too much time contemplating sad things. Many of my friends will not be grieving. In fact, a few of my friends will be celebrating graduations on the same weekend as their Mother’s Day. Some of my long-time friends will be celebrating a job well done or will be sitting in gratitude about having turned the corner with their children. These mothers want a quiet day without thinking about how things could be worse.
I will text some of these moms a “Happy Mother’s Day” this year with the bouquet sticker in the group chat. And, I should add that I will celebrate my motherhood on Sunday too. I’m grateful for the blessing. I often sit in gratitude for all I’ve gained, the ways I’ve grown and am still learning along the way.
But one of the biggest things I’ve learned about motherhood is that like grief, it’s a journey that is unpredictable and unique to the traveler. You have to walk your own path, at your own pace, and give yourself space to enjoy or mourn your days how you see fit. Your feelings can get complicated, and you have to give yourself compassionate space for that.
And if you are reading this as someone wanting to know how to support another, maybe let them know that it’s okay to not be okay.
To that grieving person you don’t know how to support, you can text:
“Thinking of you and holding space for you and your grief.”
If sincere, if they know you will pick up the phone if they call, maybe this sentence will make a small dent in a hard day.
And then again, maybe it won’t, but it won’t matter.
What matters is you will have saved a space for them. You will have remembered how complicated certain days can be.
Because if you lost a mom or a child in any way or at any time, or if your story is tragic or complicated, you don’t need the added pain of feeling invisible.
I share this today thinking of all the complicated feelers who don’t know how to feel or what to say to themselves or to others on Mother’s Day. I wrote this to say, there’s space for you to feel how you feel. And if you don’t know what this looks like, or you don’t have anyone to show it to you, then maybe you can spend the day carving out a soft, sacred space for yourself.
Warmly,
Yolande
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Thank you for this piece. It will definitely help me navigate this complicated day for me.