Mother’s Day looks a lot different for me now than it did growing up. Back then, it looked like a handmade card, a bouquet of flowers, and a perfectly curated gift for my mom to wake up to in the morning. It was something that I planned for and participated in without question. There was a clear role that I was supposed to play, and I played it well. Now, it’s a one-sentence, obligatory text to someone I barely know anymore.
The shift didn’t happen all at once. It started in high school, when I think my growing independence began to feel like a loss of control for her. Normal high school things, like wanting to spend time with friends, often turned into guilt trips. Soon enough, our time together started to feel less natural and more forced. When I finally moved away for college, that distance expanded in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
Without the routine of seeing her every day, I started to see our relationship more clearly. The things I used to overlook or excuse started to become harder to ignore, and over time, our communication stalled and became more surface-level, until it eventually turned into almost nothing at all.
Even though I live on my own now, and the independence feels nice, I still feel guilty. Guilty that a once-tight bond with my mom has turned into something distant and unrecognizable. Guilty that a holiday we used to celebrate together is now something I struggle to get through.
Mother’s Day puts a spotlight on my mixed emotions around choosing distance while grieving what I lost: The endless social media scroll of smiling photos, long captions, and words like “best friend” and “my other half.” My friends are unavailable due to Mother’s Day brunch and shopping plans. Hearing classmates talk about going home for the weekend with hugs at the door and meals waiting for them on the table.
I like to tell myself I’m not jealous. I tell myself I made the right choice. But sometimes, I really do wish I had what everyone around me has. Sometimes I wish the day felt simple again, that I could be the daughter that I know my mother so desperately wants to celebrate with.
Ever since I moved out three years ago, that’s all Mother’s Day has been for me. It’s been a cycle of guilt, comparison, and trying to ignore it altogether. There’s been no structure to fall back on anymore, and no expectation forcing me to participate. It’s just been me, deciding what to do with a day that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
However, this year, I’m doing something different. My mom will still get her obligatory text, but I won’t be forcing myself into a version of the day that no longer feels honest. Instead, I’m choosing to celebrate myself. Not in a way that tries to replace what I don’t have, but in a way that acknowledges how far I’ve come. I’m finally getting to a place where I can live fully independently, set boundaries, and take care of myself — and this didn’t happen overnight. It took letting go of what I thought things were supposed to look like, and I think that deserves recognition, too. So, this year, I’m giving myself a quiet day to stay off social media and do things I genuinely enjoy without guilt. Whether it’s going shopping, going to dinner with my boyfriend’s family, or just enjoying a bed rot day, I’m going to allow the day to pass on my own terms instead of trying to fit into someone else’s version of it.
I’m not saying that I have it all figured out. I’m still learning how to let other people celebrate without letting it turn into jealousy. I’m still learning how to sit in the discomfort of the day without letting it consume me. But for the first time, Mother’s Day doesn’t just feel like something I’ve lost. It feels like something I’m finally redefining. Mother’s Day may never look the way it once did, but now it’s a day that belongs to me. A day when I can acknowledge both the absence and the growth that came from it. For now, that’s enough for me.