More Than One Mother

Mother’s Day has always been a complicated day for me.

If I’m honest, I’ve actually spent years trying to force it into something neat, beautiful and perfect.

Putting pressure on myself. Pressure on my husband. Pressure on the day itself.

Pressure to create the kind of Mother’s Day that looks warm and effortless from the outside. But as my thoughts have wandered throughout the day I have tried a more curious lens, and something pretty simple dawned on me.

Mothering comes in many forms. And so do mothers.

Some women give birth to us. Some raise us. Some protect us. Some guide us. Some teach us. Some show us exactly what we want to be. And some show us exactly what we don’t.

For me, this day can hold both gratitude and grief at the same time.

I have a difficult relationship with my own mother, and I say that with respect and compassion for both of us, because relationships between mothers and daughters can be layered, painful, complicated and deeply shaping. Today, however, I found myself thinking less about the version of Mother’s Day I’ve always longed for… and more about the women who stepped in and mothered me in their own ways.

Peggy taught me that mothers are fierce. Not performative strong, but the kind of strong that will stand between you and the world when it matters. The kind that wakes up the tiger in a woman when someone she loves needs protecting.

My big sister taught me that mothering is in the noticing, checkin-in and showing up again and again without needing recognition. She taught me how to love without conditions, quietly, consistently and without keeping score.

Rhonda taught me that mums should try not to sweat the small stuff. Our daughters are allowed to be themselves, messy. loud, different, sensitive, wild and still deeply, deeply loved.

And maybe even my own mother taught me something too. About pain, longing, impossible expectations and the quiet wounds people carry when they’ve never fully learned how to love gently themselves. But also how I never want my own children to question that they are enough exactly as they are.

I think as women, many of us spend years believing motherhood is only biological. But nurturing is so much bigger than that. There are women walking around this world mothering others every single day through friendship, mentorship, protection, softness, honesty, meals dropped at front doors, phone calls, encouragement, fierce loyalty and quiet presence.

And today, more than anything, I want to thank them.

The women who held us together when we were falling apart.

The women who loved us through seasons.

The women who mothered us without ever needing the title.

Thank you for showing me I can be more than one version of a mother, more than the wounds I inherited, and still exactly myself.