Mother’s Day is complicated now.
This morning, my 9-year-old charged into my room, proud and determined, insisting I stay in bed so he and one of his older brothers could “make me breakfast.” What followed was a carefully crafted plate of microwaved frozen pancakes and a steaming cup of coffee—served with love, pride, and so much sweetness that I could barely hold it together. Their love was real, their joy in celebrating me was pure, and I am so grateful.
But even in that moment—especially in that moment—his absence screamed.
Joshua should have been here too. Maybe he’d be teasing his little brother about the “gourmet” breakfast, or standing in the kitchen with that crooked grin, helping them brew the coffee just right. I can see him in the room, hear what he might have said, feel how he would have made us all laugh. But he wasn’t here. And there’s no way around that.
Grief doesn’t pause for holidays. It doesn’t make room for joy; it shares the space with it, stretching right across the middle of the room like a gaping hole we all carefully navigate around, but can never ignore. We talked about him—because we always do. We remembered him, because everything reminds us. But speaking the memories feels like swallowing glass. The words catch in my throat, the tears come freely and without permission, and I’m reminded all over again that no amount of love or celebration can—nor should—ever fill that space.
This weekend was full—family, friends, laughter, good food, and that bittersweet undercurrent that never really goes away. Life continued, full of motion and meaning. But through all the activity, his absence came with us. It always does.
Still, I smiled for my children. Because they are here. They are mine, too. And they deserve to have a mom who shows up, even when her heart is breaking. They deserve to celebrate, to love, to give. And I am proud of them—so proud. I want them to know that their love holds me together, even when it feels like I’m falling apart.
So today, I lived in both worlds. One foot in the sweetness of the moment, the other in the ache of what’s missing. I held joy in one hand, grief in the other, and did my best to honor both.
Because I am still their mom.
And I am still his.
And that will always be worth celebrating—even through tears.