If Mother's Day is hard for you...

You are not alone.

For many years of my life, on the day before Mother’s Day, I’d stand in front of the card section of Target, flipping open card after card after card, looking for words that felt true.

“Nope. Not that one. Nope. Definitely not that one.“ I was looking for a needle in a haystack, but there were no cards that said …

“Mom, you were great for the first few years. Thank you.”

“When you left, you left a hole in my heart, and I’ve been grieving ever since.”

“To my Mother, I’m frustrated, hurt and tired. But I still love you…”

Instead, the entire section was always filled with pretty pink cards, basically saying the same thing. “You’re the perfect mom and everything’s perfect.”

The cards all felt like lies.

The last Mother’s Day my mom and I shared was nothing like any of the others of her final years. Usually, my husband and I would pick her up in the afternoon for a late lunch or early dinner. She’d be waiting outside her apartment, sitting on her walker seat, dressed prettier than I’ve seen her dress since Christmas. Hair done, scarf around her neck, matching jewelry that she only wore for special days. Perfumed and smiling. We’d usually have an okay time, but it was rarely “lovely.” My sweet mom was becoming more difficult to be around every year. I usually ended up with a stomachache and completely drained, desperate for a nap or just a dark, silent room.

That last time, it started off weird. I couldn’t get a hold of her. She wasn’t answering my texts or calls. My last message announced that we’d be there at 3 to get her. She wasn’t waiting outside. Not a good sign. I used my key to let myself in.

“Mom?” I called into her dark apartment. I found her sound asleep in her dirty bed, not dressed, not ready. She sat up confused, said she forgot. “Oh Mama, you’re not ready. It’s okay. If you want, we can do this another day so you can rest, it’s really okay…”

“No, no, let’s do it, it’ll take me 5 minutes.” She stumbled around, grabbed some wrinkled, musty smelling clothes. Threw her matted hair up and tied it with a scrunchy. This is not good, I thought, stomach in knots.

I didn’t know if she was hungover, depressed, messed up on sedatives or what. We tried to make small talk with her at the table. She was so disengaged and cloudy; she was not there.

I’ll spare you the details, but it was bad.

To cap things off, as we were getting into the car, my poor mom had to get to the bathroom, fast. But she couldn’t do fast anymore, and as we rushed through the restaurant, she had an accident. My poor mom. I was behind her trying to get her in there as fast as possible. The smell trailing into my nostrils caused me to throw up as soon as we got to the bathroom.

We dropped her off back at her apartment, I did not help her clean up. I just couldn’t. That was one thing I could never bring myself to do, and I’d blown past my window of tolerance for the day.

Worst Mother’s Day ever.

Now, three years since her death, I look back and realize how not okay she was, yet her years of decline were so stretched out, things dissolved so slowly, I somehow “normalized” her unwellness. And in my mind, that was her, being unwell. Declining. I had no other options but to let it happen. She wouldn’t accept help. She refused to get tested for anything. She fought me tooth and nail on seeking mental health care or medication. She was over life, long before her life was over.

My poor, sad, fading mother. As Matt and I drove away, I cried. She’d given up. She was dying. She was only 69 and knew in my gut, that was our last Mother’s Day together. Six months later she was gone.

I’m not telling you this tragic story for sympathy, or to “poor me” my way into absolution for not taking better care of her. I’ve punished myself enough, I’ve done my penance, I’ve retired the self-flogging. I have forgiven myself. I could have done better, but I did the best that I could.

I’m telling you this, in the case you also have a hard time with Mother’s Day, due to your own painful relationship with your mother. Our circumstances are unique. But pain is pain. You are not alone.

You may be broken-hearted for the mother you have, or don’t have. You may be dreading your traditional Mother’s Day brunch because your mom is critical and difficult, or has rejected you.

Or maybe your mom is gone, and you’re still grieving, feeling especially raw on this particular holiday.

Maybe it’s a holiday you’d wipe off the calendar if you could.

If your heart aches or hungers or resents or dreads Mother’s Day this year, for any reason, I am sorry for your hurt. And you are not alone.

How you do Mother’s Day this year is your choice. Maybe you skip it, and treat it like any other day. Maybe you numb out in whatever way eases the ache, maybe the goal is to protect your heart, or to just get through.

Or perhaps you’ll simply pick out another Mother’s Day card that feels like lies, grit your teeth through another tense get-together, and get it over with. Maybe you’ll be able to offset the ache by being loved on by your own children. Maybe you’ll stay in bed, curtains drawn, bingeing on Netflix.

There’s no wrong way to feel or do this.

Your feelings are valid, your ache is valid. And I understand that ache. Because I have felt it most of my life.

Come Monday, Mother’s Day will be over, and my hope for you is that you come out unscathed and okay, because you were extra kind and tender to your beautiful heart. Be a safe place for yourself. Stay close to that little girl inside, as close as you can. She needs you.

Daughter to daughter, I feel you. We can get through the ache and we will.