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For years, Mother’s Day was something I wanted to escape. After losing my mum, the sight of joyful families celebrating together felt like something I couldn’t bear. I shut myself away, avoiding the reminders of what I had lost.

But grief doesn’t stand still, and slowly, something shifted. I realised the day wasn’t just about my sadness—it was about my children too. It was about them wanting to celebrate their mother, just as I once did with mine.

My mum was gracious, hardworking, and full of quiet strength. She didn’t raise me to hide from life; she taught me to face challenges with grace, to find joy in the everyday, and to always, always be kind. She worked tirelessly, not for recognition but for love. Every meal she cooked, every sacrifice she made, was for us—to give us happiness, to shape us into good people.

That love still lives in me, and now I see it reflected in my own children. Mother’s Day is nearly the only Sunday I don’t lace up my running shoes. Instead, I wake to whispered excitement, the soft rustling of paper, and the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. I know what’s coming—the masterpiece of a breakfast, lovingly prepared with more enthusiasm than precision. Burnt toast and eggs that may or may not be fully cooked.

It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect because it’s theirs.

Mother’s Day reminds me of how grateful I am just to be a mum. Amid the chaos, the sticky hands, the moments of exhaustion, there is something truly extraordinary about being loved by my children. It is a gift beyond measure—the chance to nurture, to guide, and to watch them grow into good people.

I also know that not everyone is fortunate enough to be a mum. Some long for it, some have experienced loss in ways I can only imagine, and some find themselves celebrating in different ways. Mother’s Day is a tender day for many, and I carry that awareness with me. I don't take for granted the privilege of being loved by my children, of having the opportunity to shape them into kind, thoughtful people.

I still miss my mum every single day. That will never change. But I’ve learned that Mother’s Day isn’t just a reminder of her absence—it’s also a celebration of presence. It’s a day where I can reflect on the love, she gave me while embracing the love my children give so freely.

So now, instead of hiding, I welcome the day. I cherish the sticky kisses, the unpolished attempts at breakfast, the beautifully imperfect cards. Because in their eyes, in their laughter, I see the legacy of love my mum left behind.

Her generosity, her kindness, and her unwavering love didn’t disappear when she did. This continues, shaping who I am and the way I mother my own children. And that, I realise, is worth celebrating.

For anyone struggling with Mother’s Day, I hope you find space for both grief and joy. Love doesn’t end—it simply finds new ways to grow.