06/05/2026
Mother's Day is coming.
And I just want to say, gently, before it arrives, this day lands differently for so many people.
πͺ· Those whose Mum has died, and will feel her absence loudly this Sunday.
πͺ· Those who are yearning to be a Mum, and for whom this day is a reminder of that ache.
πͺ· Those who have or are experiencing fertility struggles or perinatal loss, carrying a grief that so often goes unseen.
πͺ· Those navigating a strained or complicated relationships with their Mum, where the card aisle doesn't fit the experience.
πͺ· Those whose Mum is still here, but has changed, maybe because of illness, or distance, or some other reason. Grieving a version of her you once knew.
πͺ· Those whose child has died, or whose child is unwell. The mothers who will sit quietly with that this Sunday, or rage loudly at the absolute unfairness of it.
πͺ· Those in the thick of postpartum, where the day might feel more heavy than celebrated.
πͺ· And those who hold their own grief quietly, even while the people around them are enjoying the day.
This is not a small number of people. This is a lot of us.
So in these days leading up, I want to offer this: What does this day mean for you? And, how might you go gently through it?
Sometimes that looks like having a plan. To do something intentional. To do nothing at all. To lean on a person who gets it. To have a quiet exit from a family gathering if you need one. Sometimes it's just letting yourself know in advance: this might be hard, and that's okay.
If you're supporting someone who's grieving this Mother's Day, your presence, your acknowledgement, your willingness to just say "I know this one's not easy", can mean more than you realise.
However Sunday lands for you, you're allowed to feel all of it, and please know that I'm thinking of you πͺ·