Why I don't believe in Bereaved Mothers' Day
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As May 8 approached, I spent a lot of time thinking. A lot of time, pondering the meaning of Mother's Day. Growing up, I didn't have the best mother in the world as far as good mothers go but rest her soul. She was what I had. I remember that despite what she was, my little sister and I would attempt to show her she was special. It was a day to celebrate moms, after all.
I came across this definition of Mother's Day, and hence my racy title: Mother's Day is a holiday honoring motherhood observed in different forms throughout the world. I found the use of motherhood in this definition quite interesting because we all know there are not just various forms of observation of the holiday, but different forms of motherhood. Because motherhood is simply the state of being a mother. So, if motherhood comes in different forms, why should a person who lost their only child through stillbirth, miscarriage, medical termination, or any other way have a separate day to commemorate their motherhood?
I tried so hard to split myself those first few years: Be happy on Mother's Day; grieve on Bereaved Mother's Day. Because there is no place on Mother's Day for sad talk, right? Wrong! It only made my heart hurt in inexplicable ways.
On that first Mother's Day after my daughter died, I felt detached. I was detached from reality, my living child, and even myself. I was this being, floating around in an endless abyss with no way up, down, or in any other direction. Then there was the underlying guilt. The guilt of what I could have done better. Guilt that by doing things, especially celebrating being a mother after outliving a child, was my way of moving on, of trying to erase her.
Mother's Days became a blur of intoxication and devastation. Then one day, I woke up a few years ago, maybe two Mother's Days after, and I stopped feeling numb. Instead, I felt sad.
Sad for the time I lost with my daughter, sadder for the time I lost with my son. I mean, I doubt he knew how detached I'd been all those years. As a grieving mother, you learn to play the part well for those still here. I smiled and laughed and celebrated as best I could. But inside, I was sitting in a dark corner of the room, waiting for the torment of normalcy to end.
Years passed, and that sadness evolved into understanding. Understanding that I didn't have to feel guilty for being sad. It was how I felt, and it was valid, resulting from real, tangible heartbreak. I didn't have to feel ashamed that I was not as happy as I used to be before Zia died or that a part of me would always be missing: a phantom limb.
But, I also understood that I did not have to feel guilty about feeling happy, either. Because I had a little face that made cards and got his dad to pick thoughtful little gifts each year, I could celebrate being his mother because damn, was I grateful to be.
Being a mother is just that, your state of being. It doesn't matter if you carry your child in your arms or your heart. You have a mother's heart, a beautiful one, and you should be able to express all the joys and pains of being a mother on Mother's Day. Being a bereaved mother is not something to be ashamed of. It never was nor ever will be. It is who we are, and I hope that society arrives at a place where that is understood and accepted.
If this is a day for me to be honored as a mother, then let it be known that I am a mother of three beautiful children. My living son, my stillborn daughter, and a baby I never even knew was growing inside me until it was too late. I am all the joy and all the sadness. I am all the living and all the longing. I am completely incomplete.
I honor every mama heart reading this, on this Mother's Day.
Have you ever felt pressured not to express sadness at missing a child on Mother’s Day? Do you feel like your feelings have to be segmented when it comes to your grief?