A Song I Used to Send, and a Mother's Day I Still Hide From

In quiet strength and gentle grace

You lift the world with warm embrace

Through sleepless nights and endless days

You guide us with your loving ways

Your hands have soothed each ache and fear

Your voice a song we hold so dear

You gave us roots and taught us wings

And filled our lives with countless things

You see our hearts, you know our minds

You love us in the rarest kinds

In every hug, in every prayer

Your selfless love is always there

So on this day, we give to you

The thanks you've earned your whole life through

For all you've done and all you are—

Our shining light, our guiding star.

Mother’s Day is always a hard one for me. Every year, it arrives like an unwelcome guest, and every year, I find myself retreating—isolating from the world, hiding in the quiet, trying not to feel too much. This year is no different.

I wrote a poem today. It reflects the kind of love I imagine most children feel for their mothers. But the truth is, I’m only guessing. I’ve never really had that kind of bond. My own mother often spoke about hers with quiet resentment—a bitterness she carried silently. I don’t carry that same resentment. I don’t hate my mother. I just hurt.

For many years, I sent her a particular song on Mother’s Day. Not because the lyrics rang true for me, but because I knew she needed to hear them. She needed to feel like she was doing a good job as a mother. And when she felt loved by me, life was just… easier. The house was calmer. Her moods softer. My world more stable.

Now, I still listen to that song—but the meaning has shifted. I cry when I hear it, not because I miss her approval, but because I wish I had someone to send it to for real. Someone who didn’t need to be convinced of their worth through curated gestures or carefully chosen words. Someone who simply was that kind of mother—the one who earned those lyrics just by being herself.

I long for that kind of love. The kind you don’t have to manufacture or perform. The kind you feel in your bones, without question.

So this year, like many before, I’ll spend the day quietly. With my thoughts, with my writing, with the ache of what wasn’t—but also with a tender hope for what still might be, in different forms.

And if you’re spending this day in grief, in distance, or in silence—I see you. Not every Mother’s Day is filled with joy, and not every mother story is simple. Sometimes love hurts. And sometimes, even in its absence, we find strength in telling the truth.

Happy mother's day to EVERY mother out there. May your day be special and full of love.