Mother’s Day is supposed to be a day filled with love.

A day where moms are celebrated. Where they get to be surrounded by their children and reminded how much they matter.

But for me… it hasn’t looked like that.

For years, Mother’s Day meant something very different.

It meant my boys being sent to their grandma’s house for her Mother’s Day celebration. It meant watching other moms spend the day with their children while I sat with the quiet, trying to convince myself it didn’t hurt as much as it did.

It meant pretending it was okay and I wasn’t hurt.

It also meant watching the small things that quietly said everything. The last-minute rush to the store for a quick gift for me—if there was one at all—while his mom’s gift had been picked out, planned, and wrapped weeks ahead of time. Those little moments didn’t feel little. They felt like reminders of where I stood, even on a day that was supposed to celebrate me.

There were also the times he tried to send the boys’ handmade daycare gifts—the little crafts made with glue and tiny hands—to his mom instead. And every time, I refused. Those weren’t just crafts. They were from my boys. Meant for their mom. And I held onto those pieces like they mattered… because they do.

And then there was last year.

The one I thought would be different.

The one I thought maybe this time we’ll feel like a family. Because they would be with their dad and me.

But he didn’t go to church with us. He stayed out in the shop most of the day while I took care of the boys alone, just like always. He went to Bloomfield for 3 hours…. that made total sense a week later.  I cooked dinner. I showed up. I tried to make something out of a day that already felt empty.

And looking back now… that was the beginning of the end.

That was the day everything was already breaking that I couldn’t hide anymore, even if I didn’t fully let myself see it, yet everyone else already knew things were not alright with us.

May has never been an easy month for me since meeting the boys dad.

It holds too many memories.

May is sending him to rehab for the first time. Realizing things weren’t okay. Trying to hold everything together when it was already falling apart.

May is finding out things no wife should have to find out—like the moment there was proof he was spending nights with someone else while still married to me.

May the night it all finally broke.

May 11, 2025.

6:45 PM.

The moment I realized I couldn’t hide it anymore. That the marriage I had fought for, prayed over, and tried to save for seven years… was over.

That I wasn’t enough for someone who was never willing to choose us.

That I couldn’t fix it, no matter how hard I tried.

I remember crying so hard that I couldn’t even think straight. And still, somehow, I wasn’t allowed to leave. My keys taken while I cried and broke down in front of my kids. My emotions dismissed. My world falling apart in real time.

That kind of pain doesn’t just disappear.

It becomes part of you.

Part of your story.

Part of your quilt.

And if I’m being honest… it feels like a huge, dark tear in it. One that I know, one day, I’ll stitch back together with bright, healing thread.

But this year… I don’t think I’m there yet.

This year, I dread Mother’s Day.

My first one as a single mom.

And that hits differently in a way I wasn’t fully prepared for.

Because it’s not just the day itself—it’s everything it represents. The memories. The loss. The quiet shame that still tries to creep back in, even though I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it.

And it’s so hard not to let it pull me down again.

So hard not to feel like it might break me.

But here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then:

Even if it hurts… I will never be as broken as I was that night.

I survived that version of pain.

So this year, Mother’s Day may not look as joyful. It may not feel light or easy. It may come with tears and celebration. 

And that’s okay.

Because healing doesn’t follow a calendar.

And some years aren’t about celebrating.

Some years are about surviving.

And if that’s what this Mother’s Day is for me—then that’s enough.

Because I’m still here.

Still showing up.

Still loving my boys with everything I have.

And now, when I look at other moms, I see them differently. I pray for them differently. I hope their day is filled with the kind of love I used to wish for.

And I hope, deep down, that they don’t carry the kind of quiet dread that I do.

But if they do…

I hope they know they’re not alone.

This year, this block of my quilt may feel torn. But I’m starting to look for the bright yellow threads—the ones I’ll use to mend it in time. Not today. Maybe not even soon. But they’re there, and one day, I’ll stitch this piece back together in a way that still holds, still matters, and still belongs in my story.