If you’re reading this on the Monday after Mother’s Day, take a breath. The brunches are over. The cards have been opened or quietly recycled. The social media feeds, which yesterday were flooded with bouquets and tributes, are returning to their usual rhythms.
For some, yesterday was tender and warm. For others, it was complicated. And for many, it was simply hard.
I want to write today for everyone in that second and third group — though I hope the first group will find something here too.
Mother’s Day Is Not a Universal Joy
It’s worth saying plainly: Mother’s Day is not a uniformly happy occasion. It’s a day that can magnify what is missing, strained, or aching.
You may not have a mother in your life. She may have died — recently, or long ago, in a way that still surprises you with its weight. You may be estranged, by your choice or hers. You may have grown up with a mother who was present in body but absent in the ways that mattered most. You may be a mother yourself who is grieving a child, or longing to become a parent, or navigating a relationship with your own children that doesn’t look the way you hoped.
You may have a mother you love deeply and still feel sadness yesterday, because love and loss are not opposites — they are often two views of the same thing.
If yesterday was heavy, that heaviness was real. It deserved space. It still does today.
What a Mother Figure Brings
When we talk about a “mother figure,” we are often talking, underneath the word, about a constellation of experiences: being seen, being soothed, being kept safe. Someone who believes in us before we can believe in ourselves. Someone who notices when we’re not okay. A presence that says, without needing words, you belong here, and you are loved.
These are real human needs. They do not disappear just because the relationship that was supposed to provide them didn’t or doesn’t.
But here is something I’ve come to believe through years of sitting with people in grief, in estrangement, in longing: these needs are rarely met by only one person. They almost never are, even in the best of mother-child relationships. The love, comfort, and safety we associate with a mother figure are actually distributed throughout our lives — across people, places, practices, and even across our own inner resources.
Most of us simply don’t notice them, because we’ve been taught to look for these gifts in one particular shape.
A Practice of Quieter Noticing
So today, I want to invite you into a different kind of noticing. Not a replacement for grief or longing — those have their own seasons and don’t need to be hurried — but an addition. A widening of the lens.
Ask yourself, gently:
Who in my life sees me clearly? It might be a friend who reads your texts between the lines. A sibling who remembers the version of you from before. A therapist, a colleague, a neighbour. Someone who recognizes you when you walk in the room.
Who soothes me? This might be a person, but it might also be a dog who climbs into your lap, a partner whose voice settles your shoulders, a barista who knows your order, a song that has gotten you through hard nights.
Where do I feel safe? In your own kitchen, perhaps. On a particular walking route. In a friend’s living room. In the quiet first hour of the morning before the world starts asking things of you.
Who believes in me? Sometimes the answer is surprising — a mentor from years ago whose words you still carry, a writer you’ve never met, a friend who keeps showing up.
What practices have mothered me? Therapy. Journaling. The gym. Cooking. Prayer or meditation. The discipline of caring for a plant or a pet or a younger version of yourself.
You don’t have to do this exercise quickly. You don’t have to make a list. You can simply move through your day and let yourself notice — oh, this is one of those things. This was here all along.
Mothering Yourself
There is one more source I want to name, because it’s the one we most often overlook: ourselves.
Many of the people I work with have learned, sometimes through painful necessity, to mother themselves. To speak to themselves with kindness. To make their own warm meals. To put themselves to bed at a reasonable hour. To say, that was hard, and I’m proud of you for getting through it.
This is not a consolation prize. It is one of the most quietly powerful skills a human being can develop. And the fact that you’ve had to learn it — if you’ve had to learn it — is not a failure. It is an accomplishment.
A Word for Today
Mother’s Day asks us to look in one direction, at one figure, in one shape. The day after is a chance to soften that gaze. To look around the room of your actual life and notice all the small and large ways you are held — by people, by places, by your own hard-won wisdom.
If yesterday was hard, I’m sorry. It makes sense that it was.
And today, if you can, look around. Some of what you needed was never going to come from where you were taught to expect it. But more of it is already here, in your life, than you have given yourself permission to see.
That, too, is love. It counts.
• • •
If this piece brought up something you’d like to talk through, please reach out. These conversations belong in our work together.