Mother’s Day Is Always Hard When You’ve Lost A Child — It Does Not Mean You Aren’t Grateful For Your Living Children

My second Mother’s Day without my youngest daughter, Orli, is approaching. My pain now, though less piercing, is deeper and more wrenching than my first Mother’s Day. My first, just three months after her death, found me in numb disbelief; this second Mother’s Day holds the unbearable knowledge that this is not a mistake, that this is real. This is my future. A future without Orli and a future that no longer exists for her.

During the shiva for Orli, several well-meaning people told me that I “must be strong for my family.” Later, I thought about it and got angry. How dare anyone tell me what I must do. I felt like they were implying that I had a duty to not fall apart since my remaining family is still in the land of the living. I don’t need a reminder that their existence alone is a sufficient reason for me to keep going. I don’t need a reminder that I still have two daughters and a husband; my grief and reaction to my loss are independent of that reality and do not need to be tempered and controlled for me to simultaneously experience gratitude for my family.

Being strong for my family meant that grieving quietly and quickly was my duty. Guess what? My grief will not be quick. It will be with me for the rest of my life. It will not be quiet. I will talk about my daughter, I will miss her, I will long for her, I will cherish her, I will call for her, and I will talk to her, every single day. I will never understand why this happened to my daughter or our family. I will never be at peace with it.

However, none of this means that I am not happy and grateful for my living daughters and husband. I live every day thinking about them, caring for them, loving them, worrying about them, having pride in them, and hoping for them. None of this is incongruent with grieving. It is possible to do both simultaneously.

I am aware that my grief is not easy to be around. I know that some people are uncomfortable with it. Usually, those are people who are lucky enough not to have experienced a traumatic loss. I worry that my living daughters won’t understand that even though my grief is often palpable, it does not in any way reflect or change the love I have and have always had for them.

I’m starting to see that this duality of emotion, intense grief, and intense gratitude and love for what I have, is possible. At the same time I grieve and miss Orli, I’m able to experience true joy with my husband and daughters. It is different from how it used to be. My sadness is now lightened with the knowledge that my daughters are resilient and thriving. My joy is more muted as it is always accompanied by my grief. Those who have suffered great loss will understand this experience. In a sense, everything is felt more deeply and is more genuine.

What do I want for Mother’s Day? Well, what I really want is impossible so I’ll reluctantly settle for the possible. I want recognition that I am a mother of three daughters, not just two who are living. I want an acknowledgment that I have had a terrible loss. I want to hear Orli’s name in conversation without tiptoeing around the topic. I want to hear stories about Orli. I do not want my loss minimized. I don’t want cliches. I don’t want to be told that I still have two children.

This Mother’s Day, and every one following it, will be difficult. Just as every birthday, anniversary, holiday, and celebration will be. This does not mean I won’t celebrate these occasions, it just means that they will be nuanced. They will have complex layers of sadness, longing, pain, joy, happiness, and love.

It is ok to be sad this Mother’s Day. It is ok to be happy. It is also ok to be both. Be kind to yourself and be kind to others. Do not assume. Do not judge. Do not generalize. Do not label. We never know what someone has gone through or is going through. Just be mindful of yourself and of others. Have a meaningful and peaceful Mother’s Day, whatever that means for you at the moment.