Mother's Day 2026: Edition 19

My experience of being a mother, and of having a mother, has been deeply rooted in service. This deep desire to want everyone to thrive. I poured that into my marriage as well — even though it is no longer. Initially, it was quite painful not to be able to pour that care into it anymore, but I have transferred much of that energy into my career.

I have always had an interest in the mundane and the repetitive — systems, underlying structures. If a system is elegant, quiet, supportive, and virtually undetectable, it can create a peacefulness, a holding, a sense of place. A sense of calm.

I have had moments in my life — even seasons where I have felt a sense of place. I would say that, for as long as I can remember, I have been attuned to creating a sense of place; wanting freedom and peace within my heart and my being has been what my actions, for better or worse or simply for being, have been about.

I picked up my daughter from college yesterday. This was her first year away; this was my first year starting a new profession. Also, I finally got divorced and assumed sole responsibility for my house — our home — the place that has held me, our family, and friends. The place that has allowed me to tinker about in it as I have tried to find my way to create a sense of place for everyone I love.

Mother’s Day is tricky for me.

Today I liken it to Veterans Day, when well-meaning folks say, “Thank you for your service,” I suppose because they don’t know what else to say — especially to a combat veteran. Maybe they don’t even think about what they’re saying. I guess it’s none of my business. Sometimes I fantasize about saying, “I deeply appreciate the service you gave,” but I am pretty sure I couldn’t get it out without crying.

Anyways, my daughter came home after I went to her dorm and helped her pack and haul her belongings to my SUV that we packed to the gills. Before I left to get her, I made her a sandwich.

I wanted to know what her favorite sandwich from Jersey Mike’s was, but I also wanted to make sure it was homemade. I researched how to make parmesan rosemary bread because that is her favorite. I bought a good-enough baguette and warmed it. Then I realized I didn’t have any parmesan, so I improvised with manchego, grated it, added rosemary and garlic salt, brushed the bread with butter, sprinkled the cheese on top, and baked it a bit longer. Fingers crossed. I hoped she wouldn’t think I was cheap for making a homemade version.

When I got to her school, she climbed into my car and decided to eat right there. She was starving. She had had a long week of finals and two difficult semesters of not feeling good, switching majors, changing relationships, and trying to be enthused about what she was up to at school. She just wanted to come home. I sensed she needed to take a load off.

So I sat with her while she ate, keeping the calm and making the space, much like I do for my therapy participants.

I learned that from being mothered myself and mothering my child.

Thinking about how I took good care of myself as she grew inside me, and once she was here, how I fed her from my body. She took a long time to breastfeed — usually about forty-five minutes. We did that for seven months. It was mostly pleasant. It was that same calm space. This child needed those long, quiet feeding sessions.

So we sat in the cab of the SUV. I held the space while she nourished herself.

Once she was fed, we went up to her dorm room to pack up so much stuff. I am spatially oriented and very good at planning and packing. It feels good to my brain. My daughter is very good at collecting things. Historically, this might have become a fight, but this time she was grateful for my help. I gave her my body, my muscle, my brain, my love — much like my mother has done for me.

When I was going through mediation to finalize the breakdown of my marriage, I kept trying to convey all of the unseen, invisible, and emotional labor I had provided. But that was not the place for it to be recognized. I was continually reminded that this was about assets and dividing things in a way that was fair and equitable because now the law was involved.

Just like you can’t put a price on freedom or on the sacrifice of one’s life, it is hard to quantify motherhood and the traditional role of a wife. So it wasn’t.

But when my daughter reached out to me to help her move, knowing she would return home to live with me, I thought: this is the perfect example of how much adapting and shifting I do, and have done, for the comfort of others.

Recently, I listened to the artist Mierle Laderman Ukeles speak about how she claimed maintenance as art. She worked with sanitation workers to understand this more deeply. She would greet each worker, shake their hand, and acknowledge them for their work. She did this with 8,500 workers. A kind of “thank you for your service,” but with a deep understanding of what it feels like to be invisible and yet dedicated to the wellbeing of others.

This is often thankless work, and somehow I find myself drawn to this type of work professionally too.

I realize it is not about the thanks. That is not why I do it. It’s because I can. Because I am good at it. Because I am making the best of the hand that was dealt to me as a woman and a mother.

So if you can imagine, holidays like Mother’s Day aren’t easy for me. I don’t feel like I can stay on the surface for this one. I feel deeply the sacrifices and choices I have made as a mother.

And I feel grateful that I was able to feed my child and offer her a warm, safe, and calm home.

That’s a big deal.

And although it may look effortless — so effortless that people miss it entirely — I know what it took.

And I celebrate myself and my mother quietly, sitting in my home, drinking my tea, and feeling as much of myself as I can bear.