When Mother’s Day Brings Longing: Holding Space for Those Who Still Hope
- Nadia Renata
- May 11
- 4 min read
The Pain of Wanting What the World Is Celebrating
There’s a quiet kind of ache that Mother’s Day can bring.
It’s not the grief of someone lost, exactly. It’s the grief of someone not yet here. The grief of what hasn’t happened, might never happen, or happened and was taken too soon.
For the women who want to be mothers but can’t - because of infertility, miscarriage, age, life circumstances, or unanswered dreams, Mother’s Day can feel like standing outside a window, watching a celebration you’re not invited to.
If this is you: your longing is valid. Your pain is real. And your heart deserves to be held in this moment.
You Are Not Alone, Even If It Feels Like It
The world is loud on Mother’s Day. Loud with brunch plans, baby photos, balloons, “Best Mom Ever” mugs. But beneath that noise, many women are quietly grieving the motherhood they longed for.
You may smile for your friends, send your mother flowers, nod at the co-worker who shares baby pics. But inside, your heart might be breaking.
This silence can feel suffocating. It can feel invisible. But hear this: You are not invisible. And your story matters.
What You’re Feeling Is Not Jealousy - It’s Grief
Let’s name it.
That sharp pang when you see another pregnancy announcement? That ache in your chest at the sound of a baby’s laugh? That moment of bitterness when someone casually says, “You’ll understand when you have kids”?
That’s not jealousy. That’s grief. Grief for the child you imagined. The role you dreamed of. The future you planned for. And it deserves space.
You can celebrate others and still mourn for yourself. You can love your nieces, godchildren, and friends’ babies and still feel deep sorrow for your own longing. Both things can be true. Both things are holy.
This Day Does Not Define You
Mother’s Day may feel like a reminder of what you lack, but it does not define your worth.
You are whole. You are powerful. You are nurturing. Whether or not you ever carry a child in your body, you are still a bearer of life, love and legacy.
Your care, your wisdom, your presence - they matter. You mother the world in ways you may not even see.
Gentle Ways to Care for Yourself Today:
Step away from social media if it feels too loud
Spend time with people who don’t need you to pretend
Take a walk or sea bath and let the water hold your ache
Write a letter to the child you hoped for
Allow yourself to cry, scream, or sit in silence - without guilt
Light a candle to honour your hope, even if it's flickering
A Blessing for the One Who Waits
May you know, beyond all doubt, that your pain is seen
not brushed aside, not diminished, but held with reverence.
Even when others don’t understand the quiet ache you carry,
may you feel witnessed by something greater
a deeper knowing, a silent compassion, a love that doesn’t flinch.
May you honour your heart, even in its emptiness.
The kind of emptiness that isn’t hollow, but sacred
a space that once held dreams and still holds love.
May you feel the quiet love that surrounds you,
in unexpected places:
the warmth of sunlight on your skin,
a soft breeze that wraps around your shoulders,
the gaze of someone who sees you
really sees you
without asking you to explain.
May hope meet you gently,
not with demands or pressure,
but as a soft whisper that reminds you:
You are still here.
You are still whole.
And even as the outcome remains unknown,
your story is unfolding with grace
just as it should,
in its own sacred time.
A Blessing For When Motherhood Wasn’t Meant to Be
May you know, deep in your bones,
that your worth was never tied to motherhood.
May you feel the quiet reverence that surrounds you,
not for what you might have given birth to,
but for who you already are.
May you release the shame that was never yours to carry,
and let go of the question, “Why not me?”
without letting it harden your heart.
May you find peace not in replacing the dream,
but in learning to hold its memory with tenderness.
May joy return to you in new and unexpected forms
soft, wild, and unburdened.
And when the world forgets to see you,
may you remember that your life, your legacy and your love
are still a force of creation.
You are not empty.
You are not broken.
You are whole.
You Are More Than This Ache
This day may stir sorrow, but it does not diminish your beauty, your essence, or your purpose.
If you never become a mother in the way you imagined; know this: you are still a creator, a nurturer and a woman of infinite value.
And if there is still hope inside you - fragile, flickering - cradle it gently. You are allowed to hope. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to feel everything.
You are not alone.
Affirmation: "My pain is real, but it does not define me. I honour my longing and hold space for my joy to return in its time.”
Reflection Prompt: What would I say to the version of me who still hopes, if I could hold her right now?
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