Mother’s Day reflection

Life looks so different for me after just 365 days.

I know life looks different for so many people right now too. Some are celebrating. Some are surviving. Some are trying not to fall apart while smiling through brunch reservations and flower deliveries. Some are holding their mother’s hand today. Some are holding memories. Some are holding grief so heavy it feels physical.

And somehow… all of us still need love.

I have been blessed with the gift of being mothered well.

Not perfectly. Not without hardship. But intentionally. Deeply. Sacrificially.

I had a mother who did things she never had to do. A mother who poured when she was tired. A mother who showed up when life was heavy. A mother who taught me that strength is not loud all the time. Sometimes strength looks like getting up again when your heart has every reason not to.

And before I understood what nurturing truly meant, I watched my grandmother love people through food, through presence, through patience, through softness. She taught me how to care for people. How to make a house feel warm. How to make people feel seen. How to love from the soul.

My mother taught me how to endure.

My grandmother taught me how to nurture.

And together, they helped shape the way I mothered my sons.

I poured into my boys from a place of legacy. From a place of survival. From a place of knowing that love is not just something you say — it is something you demonstrate over and over again, even when you are exhausted. Especially when you are exhausted.

And now life has brought me to a place I never imagined.

At this point, we have one living son left.

There are no words strong enough for that kind of sentence. No training manual for that kind of heartbreak. No guidebook for waking up every day and continuing to breathe when pieces of your heart are no longer physically here.

But what I realized is this:

When you are raised by women who refuse to quit… quitting never fully becomes an option for you either.

You keep going because they taught you how.

You keep loving because they showed you how.

You keep mothering, even through grief, because their fingerprints are stitched into your spirit.

And that is both beautiful and heartbreaking.

This Mother’s Day, my heart is especially tender for the people celebrating without their mother physically here. For the ones walking through stores pretending they are okay. For the ones avoiding social media because every post feels like a reminder. For the ones who would give anything for one more conversation, one more meal, one more hug, one more “I love you.”

I see you.

And I think if we are honest, all of us need a hug right now.

The world has become so harsh. So rushed. So disconnected.

But love still matters.

Kindness still matters.

Checking on people still matters.

And unconditional love — real unconditional love — is one of the greatest gifts a person can ever receive.

I received that kind of love from my mother. I received that kind of love from Darren. I received that kind of love from Jaxon and Nolin.

And while I am deeply thankful… I am also deeply heartbroken because two of those loves are no longer physically here for me to hold.

That is the strange thing about grief.

It can make you cry from gratitude and heartbreak in the very same breath.

But if this past year has taught me anything, it is this:

Love does not end because physical presence changes.

The lessons remain. The memories remain. The nurturing remains. The fingerprints remain.

And sometimes the greatest way we honor the people we love is by continuing to live out what they poured into us.

So today, be gentle with people.

You never know who is carrying grief underneath their strength. You never know who is surviving on memory alone. You never know who is one kind word away from falling apart… or healing.

And if you are fortunate enough to still have someone who loves you unconditionally, hold that close. That kind of love is sacred.

To the mothers who mothered me — thank you.

To the love that shaped me — thank you.

To the people carrying grief this Mother’s Day — I am holding space for you too.

And to the ones trying to keep going because quitting was never placed inside of you…

I understand.

I truly do.

P.S.

And one thing I have learned through this devastation is that women showing up for each other is a form of mothering too.

Every text.

Every prayer.

Every meal.

Every hug.

Every shoulder rub.

Every check-in.

Every moment someone sat beside me while I tried to survive another impossible day…

I felt it.

And I am so grateful for the women who have poured into me when I did not have the strength to pour into myself.

But if I am honest, this kind of loss is so extreme that I am relearning who I even am now.

Grief changes you.

Loss this deep does not leave you untouched.

And lately, I have realized I need to become more gentle with her.

With me.

Because if I am being completely honest… I have been really hard on myself.

My boys would not want that for me.

So I am learning that healing is not pretending I am okay.

Healing is allowing brokenness to tell the truth without letting it permanently define me.

I am going to keep going.

I will keep showing up.

I will keep loving.

But there will still be hours.

Days.

Weeks…

where this grief shows up loudly.

Where the brokenness feels impossible to hide.

And I think women especially need permission to say that out loud.

We carry so much.

We nurture everybody.

We hold families together.

We show up even when we are falling apart internally.

But we also have to continue holding space for one another — even when grief makes people uncomfortable.

Especially then.

Because the truth is, I have so many incredible women pouring into me right now… and somehow this journey can still feel lonely.

That is the part people do not talk about enough.

You can be deeply loved and still deeply hurting.

You can be surrounded and still feel alone.

And the work becomes calling the lie the lie.

The lie that says life is over.

The lie that says joy will never return.

The lie that says devastation gets the final word.

God… this pain has been heavy.

But I still believe in His promises.

I still believe my best days are ahead of me.

I still believe joy will find me again.

Not because life has been easy…

but because God has continued to sustain me through what should have destroyed me.

And to my tribe of women —

thank you.

You know exactly who you are.

Thank you for loving me loudly.

Thank you for sitting with me in silence.

Thank you for praying for me when I could not find words myself.

Thank you for helping me breathe through devastation.

Thank you for helping me make memories again.

Thank you for helping joy slowly feel possible again.

I am immensely grateful.

I love you BIG.

And to every woman carrying something heavy this Mother’s Day —

I am holding space for you too.

We are still here.

And that matters.

Happy Mother's Day.

P.S.S.

I did a BIG THING!!!! For Mother's Day I wanted to gift my story and it was not easy but

(Grief)Grace+Mercy=LOVE

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