To the women who call themselves mothers, and those who almost did

Six years ago, when Mother’s Day came around, we had brunch at a restaurant. I was pregnant then with my first. Along with my mom and MIL, we all got Mother’s Day flowers. It was my first. I felt cute.

Four years ago, when Mother’s Day came around, I don’t remember brunch. But I remember reaching out to a friend, who was struggling to conceive. That Mother’s Day, she was all I could think about.

Three years ago, when Mother’s Day came around, I took a pause, rested my hand on my empty womb, in remembrance of the life that was once there but was not there anymore. 

Two years ago, when Mother’s Day came around, I held my breath. I was pregnant, again. But I kept very quiet, because inside me was a tiny, flickering life. And a whisper was enough to blow it out.

Last year, when Mother’s Day came around, I held my second. He made it Earth-side about six months ago. He had beaten the odds, but we were not done with the work yet. Mother of a sick baby, I repeated in my head.

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Every year my eyes open a little bit more to the stories behind the women who call themselves mothers, and those who almost did. 

If this day means joy to you, may you have the happiest of all days. May we be spoiled and pampered in all of the ways. 

But if this day means grief to you, may you find understanding for your quiet burden. Have a seat next to me, and we’ll sit together in silence.