Mother’s Day is a Bitch

I sat on the cold, wet pebbles with some sense of relief. Hood up, partly to keep warm but mostly to hide from concerned eyes, I bawled my eyes out. The crashing waves drowned out my sobs, or at least I hoped they did.  The cold British weather piercing my skin and into my body almost as quickly as the sheer disappointment.

The last time I sat on a beach and cried like this was when my nan died. I’d left her bedside and gone straight there, crying until there were no tears left. And here I was again, shivering, gloves on, writing down how I felt, trying to make sense of it all.

I hate Mother’s Day.

It is a reminder every year. A moment in time that is highlighted, emboldened, underlined. Some of us are not mourning a mother through death, but through absence or bonding. I was mourning something hard to explain. A relationship that never quite formed in the way I would have dreamed or wished for my own girls. A relationship that did not feel natural and left me questioning what being a dutiful daughter really means.

Earlier that day, I had phoned to make plans to see her the following morning, Mothering Sunday. I was told no. She goes to church and spends time with her other family. I had already made plans later in the day with my in laws and my own daughters, so I suggested tea and cake that very afternoon instead. It was agreed.

Thirty minutes before we were due to meet, with conversation starters rehearsed in my head, I was already in town and inside a florist choosing a bouquet. One perhaps more generous than I really wanted to spend. Then the text came.

In that moment, something as insignificant as one too many coffees had taken the moment from me. The child within me wanted a hug from her mum, to feel special, to feel important enough to spend an hour with. And I wasn’t going to get it. 

Instead, I was asked to walk a few more miles further and visit my parents’ house to drink tea there. But the adult in me wanted to protect that child from more hurt and said NO. Setting that boundary initially didn’t feel empowering. It made me feel guilty of not prioritising someone else’s comfort over my own needs. Saying no felt cruel - but also right.

Was it self sabotage? I don’t know. And I was too scared to untangle the emotional mess enough to find out. I knew was that I didn’t feel one hundred percent either. Yet I had still walked a couple of miles into town after a busy working week. I was still making the effort. Still trying to make my mum feel special.

With a heavy heart I went in search of a Mother’s Day card. Each year it’s the same something plain and simple, with enough space for words if the feelings are there, or enough blankness to say everything when they are not. I stood there and the tears started. Cards are difficult when you don’t quite know who you are writing to.

That’s why I was freezing on the beach, tears streaming down my face.
When the sobs eased, the sadness hadn’t.

Just like Valentine’s Day, love shouldn’t be rationed to a single date on a calendar. Why does there have to be this one day? This pressure. This annual reminder. A day that can hurt more than any ordinary one.

Mother’s Days a bitch.

--- 2005 ---
If any of this resonated with you, please leave a comment. Thank you in advance, Tracey x