The Day After Mother's Day: The Grief That Lingers

I had a lovely Mother’s Day.

I picked up flowers for my mom and dropped them off. I went to see my sister, who made brunch for us—me, my nieces, and nephew. My daughter joined us later, and we went to the mall, did a little shopping, spent time together. By all accounts, it was a good day.

And yet, I woke up feeling heavy. Sad. A little off. Moody in a way I couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t until I spoke with a friend and colleague—someone who also carries a mother wound—that it clicked. She shared her own reflections on the day, and just like that, something in me said: Oh. This is grief.

The mother wound doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it shows up quietly, the morning after. In the heaviness. In the way your body feels tired even after rest. In the space between conversations. It lingers—not always loud, not always obvious—but present all the same.

The truth is, I’ve felt this many Mother’s Days before. I just didn’t always name it.

I guess this is why they say healing hurts. Because you start to feel the things you once had to numb. You start to notice the grief that’s been sitting quietly in the background all along. But awareness is a kind of freedom, too. It means I’m no longer running from the wound—I’m walking with it. And some days, that’s more than enough.

I used to tell myself I wanted to heal the mother wound once and for all. To be free of it. Above it. Beyond it. But this kind of grief doesn’t work that way. It’s not something you heal once and never feel again. It's something you learn to carry. Gently. Honestly. With compassion.

Some years it barely whispers. Other years, it taps you on the shoulder all day long.

And that’s okay. I’m no longer trying to pretend it’s not there. I’m not letting it run my life, but

I’m also not forcing it back into silence. I’m making room for it. Naming it. Letting it move through me instead of trying to fight it.

So if you woke up feeling off today, unsure why—If yesterday was beautiful but something still feels... tender—Know that you’re not alone.

Maybe you’re grieving a mother who was never fully able to show up for you. Maybe you’re missing someone who’s no longer here. Maybe you’re mothering while still healing from never being mothered yourself. Whatever it is, you don’t have to explain it. You don’t have to justify it. You don’t have to hide it. You’re allowed to feel it. And more than that—you need to feel it... because that’s how we heal.