When Mother’s Day Hurts
In recent years I have felt a pang of grief every time Mother’s Day comes around. There's so much celebration, and rightly so. Moms sacrifice so much for their children, something my own mother has proven countless times. But nonetheless, every time this day of celebration comes around my emotions are complex. I see everyone around me celebrating their mothers, I see my peers starting families and see the joy it brings them, joy that I would love to experience, and yet I know I probably won’t.
I know I’m not alone in this. For many of us with chronic illness or rare disease, it’s a reminder of the dreams that might never unfold the way we imagined.
I’ve always wanted to be a mom. I still do. But I don’t know if my body will ever allow it. I don’t know if even if my body did allow it I would want to go through with it and pass on my genetics to my children.That’s a hard thing to admit. It’s a quiet kind of grief, one that doesn’t always get acknowledged, but lives deep inside me, surfacing when I see a baby, or a friend celebrating a pregnancy, or on Mother’s Day.
So this post is for those of us who, like me, live with chronic conditions, disabilities, invisible pain, and who carry dreams of motherhood that may never come to fruition.
It’s for:
The women who’ve faced infertility caused by illness or treatment.
The ones who chose not to pass down their genetic conditions to a child, an act of love that’s often misunderstood.
The moms who faced down the risks and said yes to motherhood anyway.
The women who were told by doctors that pregnancy could cost them their life.
The disabled moms proving every day that strength doesn’t always look how people expect.
The women who’ve had miscarriages, who tried and lost, and still carry that love every day.
The women who don’t know if motherhood will ever be part of their story.
In a society and culture, especially in church communities, where women are often measured by what we can produce, by how much we can give, let’s be clear:
You are not defined by your fertility.
You are not less of a woman if you never give birth. You are not saved through or because of childbirth.
You are not broken.
You are fierce. You are tender. You are valuable. You are whole.
We are more than our wombs.
More than our diagnoses.
More than what society expects us to be.
So today, while we honor mothers (as we should), I want to leave this as a reminder for every woman walking a path that looks different.
You are not alone. You are loved. You are enough.
