Dealing with Mother’s Day (Without a Mom)

You get used to the pity looks.

They fade within seconds, only lasting long enough for the individual to remember that your mother died and this holiday must be really awkward for you. Except, it seems, everyone you encounter remembers this and doesn’t know how else to handle it — just a quick look of discomfort. The pity looks really get me, because trust me, if you’re uncomfortable just imagine how I feel.

My mom passed away when I was seven, and my second grade class all made me cards. I don’t really remember what they said, because I’m not sure what you tell a bunch of second graders to write to their classmate who doesn’t have a mom anymore. Maybe something like: “When you come back to school, it’s okay if you cry” and “Everyone is going to look at you weird now because we don’t fully understand the concept of death, because we’re seven” or “Sorry sorry sorry” because I think that’s really all you can say. Honestly, though, if anyone had to write me a card now to express their sympathies to a girl that has to go the rest of her life without a mother, it should be:

“Sorry that for the rest of your life Mother’s Day will actually be the worst”

I don’t want people to feel bad for me, because that only makes everyone uncomfortable, I just want people to understand how a pink, flowery, commercialized holiday can somehow be someone’s personal hell.

I’ve had years to grieve and deal and cope, and time certainly helps, but when I see people posting pictures with their mom on Instagram and writing a caption about how she’s done so much for them (again and again and again) it’s like I’m seven again and holding a bunch of cards made out of construction paper from a bunch of kids who wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand what it felt like to not get to hug their mom that day after school, or how it’d feel to not hug their mom when the girls in middle school were mean, or how it’d feel for their mom to not be there to help them figure out make-up, or go to their sporting events, or to send them off to prom.

On Mother’s Day, it’s a big, fat reminder of what I try to forget the rest of the time. That I don’t have a mom, I don’t have my mom, the woman that was my biggest hero.

But, maybe that’s a (somewhat) good thing about Mother’s Day. As much as I dread it, and I try to avoid social media on this particular day, I realize that it is one day I can give up all the space in my head to my mom. I can let all my thoughts be about her, pull every memory I have, and I can talk about her freely— relive our times on vacations, go through photo albums (and try to diminish the pity looks). Don’t feel too bad for someone without a mother on mother’s day, you’ve got your own mom to think of, just realize that I’m doing my best to celebrate my mom, too (and if that means I’m a little pouty, I’m still doing my best).