When Mother’s Day hurts
Mother's Day is a day celebrated by many. But for some, It can be painful. And I would like to hold space for those of us who find that day anything but easy.
Did You Know…
Here's something I didn't know until recently, and it completely shifted the way I saw this whole holiday. Mother's Day, in its original form, was never meant to be about flowers and brunch. It was born from protest, pain, and from a woman who wanted peace.
Julia Ward Howe, who was an abolitionist, activist, and poet, issued what became known as the Mother's Day Proclamation in 1870. Her vision? For women to gather once a year, in parlors and churches and social halls, to listen to sermons, sing hymns, pray, and present essays…all in the name of promoting peace in a war-torn world. It was radical, it was activist, and it was beautiful.
But then commercialism arrived.
What started as a call to gather in churches became, by the early 1900s, a Hallmark holiday. Today, Mother's Day is a $25 billion industry, with flowers being the most commonly purchased item. Twenty-five billion dollars. In one weekend.
And somewhere in the flood of bouquets and greeting cards, the women who are quietly breaking on this day got left behind.
I need us to slow down right here. Because what I'm about to say matters deeply, and I want every woman reading this to feel it.
And it doesn't stop there
This Day Carries Hidden Weight
for Many Among Us.
Those with emotionally absent mothers, whose mom was physically present but never truly there, leave wounds that are invisible but very real.
Those carrying unresolved trauma, grief, rejection, abandonment, harsh criticism, abuse, or emotional needs that were never met. They smile through Sunday and weep on Monday.
Those who ache to be a mother, who have walked through infertility, IVF that didn't take, miscarriage after miscarriage, and arrive on Mother’s Day with empty arms and a full heart of longing.
Those who recently lost their mom, for whom this is the first Mother's Day with a seat at the table that will never be filled again. The grief is fresh. The silence is deafening.
The mothers are grieving the death of their child, because no parent ever imagines burying a son or daughter. No one prepares you for celebrating motherhood when your child is gone. It is a grief entirely its own. (Aunt Lou, I See You.)
You are not forgotten. I hear you. I see you. And so does He.
— Coach K
"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."
Romans 12:15 · NIV
As you celebrate, I challenge you to hold two things at once: your gratitude and someone else's grief. Share some compassion with those around you who are quietly carrying the weight of this day.
Look for the orphan. The grieving. The doubtful. The abandoned. The one aching for a child. The one who just lost their mom. The one who never really had one.
Yes, this is a day many people absolutely love. Let's also be like Jesus, and recognize it's a day some of us loathe. And meet them both with God's love.
Lord, on this day that holds so much for so many — we come to You as we are. We pray for those whose hearts are heavy: wrap Your loving arms around them in a way that only You can. For the one grieving their mother, please comfort. For the one longing to be a mother, give her hope, and for the one estranged, grant her peace that surpasses understanding. Lastly, for the mother who has buried a child, cover her with a tenderness so deep only Heaven can give it.
I also pray for those celebrating. God, please let joy flow freely and gratitude run deep. But Lord, keep our eyes open to the ones beside us who are hurting quietly. Help us to be Your hands. Your voice. Your presence in a room that holds both laughter and tears.
You are El Roi, the God who sees every single one of us. May we see each other the same way.
In Jesus' name — Amen.
