Mother’s Day used to be complicated for me. Not because I didn’t believe in it… but because I didn’t know where I fit in it.
There was a time in my life when I wasn’t showing up as the kind of daughter any mother would feel celebrated by. I was the one creating chaos. The one making promises I couldn’t keep. The one who said I’d change… and then didn’t. I remember one specific Mother’s Day.
I had every intention of doing something meaningful. I told myself this year would be different. I would show up. I would make her proud. I would finally be the daughter she deserved. But instead, I showed up late. Distracted. Not fully present. And I could feel it. That quiet tension that doesn’t need words. The kind that sits at the table with you. I remember looking at her and knowing she wanted more for me than this. And the truth is… so did I. But wanting it and living it were two very different things back then. What I didn’t understand at the time was how much strength it took for her to keep loving me through that season.
Not the easy kind of love.
The kind that sets boundaries.
The kind that says “I love you” without rescuing.
The kind that hopes… while also letting go.
Because I know now there were moments she could have stepped in, smoothed things over, made it easier for me to stay exactly where I was. But she didn’t. And I didn’t thank her for that then. I resented it.
I thought love was supposed to feel like relief. I didn’t understand that real love sometimes feels like being left to face yourself. Today, I see it differently.
Today, I see a mother who loved me enough to not lose herself trying to save me. A mother who held her ground even when it hurt. A mother who believed in a version of me I couldn’t yet see. And that kind of love… it changed everything.
It didn’t happen overnight. My story didn’t flip in a single moment. But those boundaries, those hard decisions, those moments where she didn’t come running—they created space. Space for me to finally see my life clearly. Space for me to choose something different. And eventually… space for recovery.
Now, Mother’s Day looks different. Today, I carry a mama heart of my own—a heart that knows both deep love and deep loss. A heart that once felt like it had nowhere to put all that love. And yet today… I get to.
I look around and I see young people who are hurting, searching, trying to find their place. And that same love I carry… it gets to meet them right where they are. In some sacred way, I still get to mother. And I also get to look back with gratitude—for the mother who didn’t give up on me, but also didn’t enable me.
To the moms reading this:
I know how heavy this day can feel. I know the questions you carry. Am I doing this right? Am I helping? Am I hurting? If you are loving your child enough to hold boundaries, enough to tell the truth, enough to not lose yourself in the process… You are loving them well. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
Especially then. Because sometimes, the greatest gift a mother can give… isn’t relief. It’s the space for her child to find their way back.
-Jamie, in Recovery
