To the Mothers. To the Grieving. To You.

What if the word mother brings a lump to your throat? What if it stirs up grief, guilt, love, longing—or all of it at once?

If you’re holding something tender this May, this is for you.

A love letter across the spectrum of motherhood.

To The Mothers

You are the heartbeat of your home.

The quiet strength behind the chaos.

The steady hands that braid hair, pack lunches, hold hearts.

You are a soft place to land—over and over again.

Being a mother is often idealized as all-knowing, all-sacrificing. But in real life? It’s messy. It’s not just rocking chairs and lullabies. It’s sometimes rage. Sometimes loneliness. It’s whispering “I’m sorry” after yelling.

Motherhood is beautiful. And exhausting. It is full and depleting. Joyful and relentless. It is sacred, mundane, intimate, and endlessly complicated. It’s a courageous, bone-deep devotion.

And still, within the weight of it all, there is joy—the kind that bubbles up when your child’s laugh pulls you back into the present. The kind that keeps you silly, soft, and alive.

You are not just holding it down—you are raising worlds. You love while healing. You protect while preparing your babies for a world that tries to dim their light. You give, even when you feel empty. You love, even when you’re barely holding yourself.

And still, you ask: Am I doing enough? Am I getting this right?

I invite you to hold that duality—the good and the not-so-good. Because let’s be real: Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.

You don’t have to do it perfectly. You never did.

To the those with Complicated Mother Stories

Maybe you’re grieving the mother you never really had. Maybe you’re holding both love and resentment. Maybe you miss her, even though she’s still here.

If you were never truly mothered…If you felt like the parent in the relationship…If you’re still sorting through the ache of unmet needs—You are not ungrateful. You are not wrong for feeling it.

You get to name the truth:

“I wanted more.”

“I wanted less.”

“She did what she could—but it wasn’t enough.”

“I’m still angry and hurting.”

There’s a kind of grief in not getting what you needed. And that grief deserves space, even if she’s still alive. Even if she tried.

You can resent her and still love her.

You can grieve and still grow.

You can honor her story while protecting your own.

You can break cycles while feeling this all.

To the Ones Who Have Lost Their Mothers

To the ones walking through this world without her hand to hold—this month might feel heavier than most. Maybe it’s your first Mother’s Day without her. Maybe it’s been years, and the ache still surprises you.

Grief has no timeline, no rules. It comes in waves—loud, soft, sudden.

Maybe you miss her laugh. Her smell. The way she called your name. Maybe your relationship was complicated, and now the grief is too. Maybe you’re not just missing her—you’re also missing what you wished she could’ve been.

Whatever you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry it alone. You are still her child.

Love doesn’t end when someone dies.

It changes form.

It echoes.

It lives in the way you speak, cook, hug, rest.

I invite you to mourn, to remember, to celebrate, to be. You can honor her in your rituals, in your silence, in your celebrations, in your becoming.

If no one told you yet this month—She would be proud.

To the Ones Trying to Become Mothers

I see you quietly hoping, month after month…You’ve held life inside and then had to let it go…You’ve carried invisible grief while the world carries on.

I see your ache. I see the heartbreak of a body that feels like it’s not cooperating, or a dream that feels out of reach.

You don’t have to explain your sadness. You don’t need to smile through it.

Whether you’ve lost a child, are waiting for one, or have chosen another path, you are still worthy of gentleness, of ritual, of remembrance and most of all grace.

I invite you to let yourself be held by community, by softness, by whatever brings you peace.

To the Ones Who Don’t Want to Be Mothers

To the ones who’ve decided—clearly or quietly—“That path is not for me.”

To the ones who feel guilt when everyone else expected them to have children.

To the ones who’ve had to defend their choice, again and again.

Your life is not less meaningful. Your womanhood is not defined by a womb. Your freedom is sacred. So is your right to rest, to love, to build your own legacy—on your terms.

Maybe you carry a little guilt for what your parents dreamed for you. Maybe you wonder if you’re disappointing others. Maybe you’re grieving the idea of motherhood, while still knowing it’s not for you.

That’s valid too.

Choosing not to mother is an act of honesty. Choosing not to mother is still an act of love—for yourself, for your story, for the kind of life you want to live.

This month, you deserve to be honored for who you are, not who the world thinks or wants you to be.

To You, Wherever You Land

As a mama.

As a child.

As someone grieving.

As someone choosing their own path.

This is a love letter to your story.

To your ache, your love, your joy, your courage, your complexity.

There is no one way to mother.

No one way to be a child.

No one way to grieve.

You’re allowed to feel it all.

You’re allowed to take up space.

You’re allowed to become—again and again.

With tenderness & love,

G