Happy Mother’s Day

May 11, 2025

Happy Mother’s Day — especially to my mom, who selflessly sacrificed her entire life raising eight children. I love you, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me.

To my Aunt Marguerite — our sweet “Noonie Pop,” in heaven: I love and miss you dearly. You were like a mother to me. We shared a special bond — one shaped by your role in raising me and your understanding of what it meant to be motherless. Though you never had children of your own, you poured out motherly love to all your nieces and nephews, unconditionally. You possessed the qualities of a mother, and then some. Until we meet again.

Mother’s Day is bittersweet for me.

If I’m being honest, since losing my baby in 2014, I’ve spent many of these days alone, in bed, quietly praying for them to pass. Each year, I’d tell myself I was going to make it a good day. But as it drew near, I’d begin to unravel — the sadness, the anger, the longing all creeping in. So, I’d stay home. I didn’t want to dampen anyone else’s celebration.

I’ll never forget my first Mother’s Day after the miscarriage — just two weeks after surgery. I was still physically sore and emotionally raw. My husband and I went to Sunday Mass, even though I dreaded it. Our priest always asks the mothers to stand for a special blessing, and I was anxious the entire time.

When the moment came, I stayed seated. My husband gave me a gentle nudge to stand. It made me angry. I felt humiliated. The grief was still so fresh. Tears welled up, and I quietly cried through the rest of the service. I wanted to run — but I froze. Drawing attention to myself felt worse. After that, I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to Mass on Mother’s Day.

Last year — after twelve years — I went. I stayed seated again. I made it through, but it was still so hard. This year, I chose to skip Mass altogether.

To the moms, the moms-to-be, the stepmoms, the godmothers, the moms who’s children are no longer with us, and the women who mother in quiet ways —

Happy Mother’s Day.

To the women who long for children; who struggle with infertility —

I see you. I feel your pain. I understand.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to skip the celebrations if they feel too heavy.

It’s okay to protect your heart.

No one should make you feel guilty for doing what you need to survive this day.

You are not alone.

⸻

With love,

Delilah