While I usually post on Mondays, today is my first Mother’s Day ever without my mom to share it with.  While I’m so lucky to be the mother of two wonderful daughters, there is, along with much joy, an emptiness. I know I’m certainly not alone today in this ache of ambivalence and wanted to reach out to anyone else who might feel the same way.

It’s easy to be swept up in the Hallmark traditions of how things should be on a day like today – brunches with bright flowers and colorful napkins accompanied by cards with thoughtful expressions of appreciation. These expectations create burdens when we don’t feel up to it all or don’t have the people or quality of relationships in our lives, thinking everyone else in the world does.

There are so many ways in which someone around us might need some comforting today.  Besides the passing of a mother, many people have lost children. I often wondered what it was like for my own mother on Mother’s Day to experience the pain from the death of her child  She was a person who didn’t express herself in this way very much, but I know her pain was profound. And then there’s the pain of conflict, wanting a better relationship with a mother or child, or wanting contact at all when there’s estrangement.  Or the pain of infertility. While we celebrate motherhood, many people silently long for the chance for this loving opportunity, mourning a very private loss.

Growing up, my mother thought I was “too sensitive.”   I heard it so many times I might have thought it was my name.  We were very different types of people; not that we didn’t love each other, but I often wished for more understanding between us.  But she loved me and supported me as best she could and now that I am a mother of young women, I understand better how easy it is to miss the mark, even when you try your best.  And at the end of her life, when she came to live with me in her dependent and disabled decline from her disease, we had a good laugh about how it was a good thing for her I was so sensitive.  While those years of her disease were so very tragic and difficult, I’m now deeply grateful for the opportunity for that time together.

There is something about pain and even tragedy that opens us.  My mother and I did indeed grow closer through the oppression of her disease.  She had become so physically disabled, her pride and insistence on independence could no longer keep up with the degree of the needs she had.  When she had to be fed, dressed, and transferred, a humility emerged that allowed her to let down her guard, just enough to be cared for. It was the closest I felt to her, and I am hoping her to me.  While I like to remember her physically in her more healthy days, I hold on to the tenderness I experienced between us in the last year, especially.

So if you are feeling pain this Mother’s Day, please accept my invitation to honor this pain.  It’s the manifestation of a longing for the love so essential to our sense of purpose and well being. You have my complete permission to turn off your phone and avoid the Facebook posts and memes, sent with good intentions of course.  Listen to your desire, give expression to what you feel. While it may be difficult and exhausting, it is an experience of love no less beautiful than any other. If there is one thing I am sure of in my 54 years of being a daughter and near 21 years of being a mother, is that there is no right way of doing and no right way of being.  It is the precious moments of authenticity, while not at all like the Hallmark expectations predict, that most matter and endure.

May your Mother’s Day be full of love, in whatever form it comes.