Beneath its flowery edges, for many, Mother’s Day can carry an unseen, heavy weight.
This is my eighth Mother’s Day as a solo parent. One would expect me to have built an emotional armour. I haven’t. I’m still surprised by the same sinking feeling when the floodgates open on the school parents’ WhatsApp groups—“Don’t forget the Mother’s Day Stall, bring in a present!” “Volunteers needed!” “Give your kids $5 for gifts!” My stomach knots, and that old familiar ache rises.
I’ve been raising my son on my own for almost all his glorious life. He’s about to turn nine. He’s loving, hilarious, inquisitive and appreciative. No surprises, I cherish him more than anything and am endlessly grateful. But Mother’s Day still feels hard. Even in the years I’ve been in a relationship, with a kind, well-meaning partner who’s gone out of his way to make me feel special, I start the day under a heavy cloud and end it with a wave of relief that it’s over.
When my son was in kindy, he was so worked up about the Mother’s Day stall. He came home frustrated and teary because, in his words, “No one was there to help me, and I wanted to get you something really special.” I’ll never forget the look on his tiny face dwarfed by a wide brimmed school hat—that feeling of being a little boy who wanted to do something lovely for his mum but felt helpless. That was one of those quiet heartbreaks that single parents know only too well.
It’s not about the gifts or the brekky. It’s a sadness that creeps in today. A day that magnifies the invisible load and quiet resilience of doing it all, solo.
I know I’m not sitting here alone carrying these emotions. So that’s why I’m writing this. For the single mums. For those trying to become a mum. For people grieving their own mums for one reason or another. For the mothers who’ve lost children, or who mother in ways the world doesn’t readily see (shout out to my friends who are the most loving aunties! I see you).
The pressure to perform gratitude or feel radiant joy can be its own kind of burden, especially when your experience doesn’t match society’s narrative.
I also get that for many people, Mother’s Day is wonderful. I’m not here to be a kill joy or to wilt anyone’s brunch flowers. I’m here for the people who feel a little blah this weekend, and who need to be reminded that they’re not weak, overly sensitive or ungrateful. You’re human.
Over the years, I’ve learned a few ways to make the day feel less like an emotional ambush. Here’s what’s helped when it all feels a bit much:
- Stay off social media. Seriously. If there’s ever a day to skip the scroll, it’s this one. You do not need to see someone else’s Donna Hay breakfast tray, designer gifts and smiling kids in linen. It’s not real. It’s not helpful. Just don’t.
- Get outside. For me, it’s the beach. Something about salty air and sand underfoot brings me back to myself. Whatever your spot is—find it. Move your body. Breathe.
- Phone a friend. Doesn’t have to be a deep conversation. Just connection with someone who fills your cup. A FaceTime. A shared laugh. Something to remind you you’re not in this alone.
- Laugh. Find something stupidly funny to watch. Comedy, trashy reality, memes, whatever lifts your mood.
- Make your own ritual. For the past few years, one of my dear friends and her daughter sleep over on Mother’s Day Eve. We wake up in our PJs, exchange hilarious (and sometimes inappropriate) little gifts, and eat crepes with mountains of biscoff while the kids make a mess. It’s chaotic and wonderful.
Even with these strategies in place though, the lead-up is still hard.
Take the love, skip the pressure, laugh (if you can), and put the damn phone down.