Just a heads up, this week’s essay speaks to Mother’s Day and grief. So if you’d rather skip it—I totally understand. Thank you for reading.. x
This Sunday is Mother’s Day and like many, I find myself having complex feelings about it.
I can still remember the excitement I felt as a child, bounding into my mum’s bedroom each year to surprise her with a colourful card, no doubt artfully decorated by me and my brother. Often there’d be a lotto ticket stashed inside—and if she was really lucky, perhaps she’d also score a new pair of fluffy slippers. Or, a massage voucher.
But as the years have passed, I must admit I’ve not given much thought to this Hallmark holiday—and it’s likely only due to the absolute flurry of marketing messages we’re bombarded with that many of us even remember to ‘spoil Mum this Sunday’. Having lived overseas from my family for well over a decade now, too, I also feel as though the significance of events like Mother’s Day, has faded a little. I value the time we get to spend together face to face far more highly than a token phone call made on Mother’s Day.
However, once I became a mum myself, the whole concept of Mother’s Day took on new meaning for me. My first Mother’s Day fell just a few short weeks after giving birth when I was still somewhat high on oxytocin and deep in the newborn love bubble. It was also peak Covid lockdown, so I was feeling immensely grateful to have my little boy in my arms when so many families were dealing with heavy grief.
But understandably, Mother’s Day can be a tricky subject of discussion—and one that can trigger a whole gamut of emotions for those who feel the day does not speak to them. And it is our collective responsibility, I think, to be sensitive to this.
You see, my own mum is currently battling cancer. It is is a diagnosis we have been grappling with for over four years now—and while for the most part, I feel the initial raw shock of it all has eased somewhat, the reality of what this diagnosis means is something I feel confronted with on a daily basis.
There’s no easy way to say this, but I am terrified to consider what the landscape of my life will look like when my mum is no longer here. And honestly, it’s something I have to actively put to the side from time to time, otherwise the grief feels so immense it might swallow me whole.
So with Mother’s Day on the horizon and my inbox flooded with sales pitches trying to convince me that the way to show Mum I care is with a brand new bath robe or fragrant candle, there is a pit in my stomach that is impacting every breath I take.
I won’t be with my mum this Mother’s Day—and while for all intents and purposes it’s ‘just another day’, this year I wish more than anything that I could run into her bedroom on Sunday morning, a colourful card in my hand and jump under the covers next to her. My only fear is that I might just never have the strength to let go.
I love my mum. And I feel so grateful for the relationship we’ve cultivated over the last 36 years. I know not everyone is as fortunate. But this year, I’m asking those around me to be sensitive as I try to find some steady ground.
And I hope that I can do the same for those in the same boat.
If you’d like to give me a Mother’s Day gift, I’d be so grateful if you could donate to Ovarian Cancer research. Despite being the deadliest female cancer, there is still no early detection test—and we deserve better.