Let’s just call it what it is: Mother’s Day can be complicated as fuck.
For some, it’s a celebration. For others, it’s a grief bomb. A trigger. A minefield wrapped in a brunch menu and a flower delivery.
Maybe your mom was absent. Or harmful.
Maybe you lost her. Or never knew her.
Maybe you are a mom, but you’re burned out and tired of the one day a year people pretend to appreciate you.
Maybe you wanted to be a mom and it didn’t happen.
Maybe you’re mothering someone who doesn’t see it.
Maybe you’re doing it solo. Or in a co-parenting circus. Or navigating estrangement.
Maybe you’re just not into the damn holiday at all.
For years, I sat in church on the second Sunday in May, forced to absorb people droning on about how amazing their mothers were. How divine the role of motherhood was. How as women, our ultimate calling was to become mothers.
But it was all laced with this glaring contradiction: women in that religious system were treated like property. Expected to breed, submit, and “hearken” to their husbands (yes, hearken—that’s not me being dramatic, that’s literally the word).
Meanwhile, I was surrounded by friends being excluded in real time.
Women who couldn’t conceive.
Women still trying, month after month.
And women who weren’t even allowed to consider motherhood because they weren’t married. (Cue the collective gasp from the faithful. Cue the massive eyeroll from the rebels.)
And let’s be real—I didn’t want to celebrate my own parent.
I’ve since made peace with her. I truly believe she did the best she could.
But back then? In the thick of Mormonhood? I hadn’t done the healing.
And I sat through those services pretending to publicly honor a woman I was still privately angry with—for her abuse, for the pain, for all of it.
It was suffocating.
And the pressure to conform, to smile, to be grateful—it was all-consuming.
So I pushed it down. For years.
I know better now. And I know this much is true:
It’s better not to push it all down. But that doesn’t mean it’s easier.
Living intentionally? That shit is hard.
It takes spoons. It takes stamina. It takes standing in the storm instead of numbing out.
But I will never go back.
And I will never tell another human to just “accept” a life—or a ritual, or a relationship—that doesn’t feel like a full-bodied, fuck-yes.
Whatever your story—this is your Fuck-it pass to not perform.
You don’t have to post the curated gratitude carousel.
You don’t have to smile through eggs Benedict with someone who hurt you.
You don’t have to buy the card, or accept one, or even open the ones that show up.
You can celebrate—or not.
Grieve—or not.
Scroll past it all. Take a walk. Cry in the shower. Eat cake in bed.
Throw a party for chosen family. Light a candle for what was.
Rage a little. Or a lot.
You’re allowed to feel however you feel.
You’re allowed to opt out.
Because love—real, deep, enduring love—doesn’t need a designated day.
And honoring motherhood? Yours, your mother’s, or the absence of either?
That deserves more than one Sunday in May.
So if you need to be quiet this month, I see you.
If you want to scream, I hear you.
And if you’re just trying to survive this season—you’re not alone.
Reflection Prompt:
What would it look like to rewrite Mother’s Day in a way that feels authentic to you—even if that means not observing it at all?
Enjoy, and feel free to share your reflection if you feel so inspired!
Be strong. Do it scared. 💜
