Mothers day

Mother’s Day feels impossible this year. Maybe because there is no version of this day that exists without Sana. Two years ago, around this same time, she was in the hospital. We were still holding onto hope, still speaking in the language of “when you get better.” I remember joking with her, telling her that once she recovered, we would all go out for brunch together for Mother’s Day. She looked at me and said, “Sure, Mom.” I teased her about my gift too, and she smiled and said that would come once she felt better. At the time, those words felt ordinary. Simple. Temporary. We truly believed there would be another Mother’s Day. Another brunch. Another laugh. Another chance. Now May arrives carrying memories instead of plans. People speak about celebrating Mother’s Day, but grief changes the meaning of celebration. I don’t want distractions from Sana this month. I don’t want to move away from the memories to make the day lighter or easier. The memories are painful, but they are also all I have left of those moments with her. Sometimes grief makes you hold tightly even to the pain, because the pain itself is connected to love. There is an incompleteness that sits quietly inside me now. A motherhood that still exists, but with an absence so profound that every celebration feels fractured. I am still Sana’s mother. That will never change. But Mother’s Day without her feels less like a celebration and more like standing beside a life that was interrupted too soon. And maybe this year, surviving the day is enough. Maybe loving her, remembering her voice, replaying those small conversations in my mind, is the only way I know how to honor Mother’s Day now.