A Love Note For The Motherless

Because Mother's Day can be brutal.

Welcome to The Newsletter—a free, twice-monthly love note for the Anthropocene era, from this tree-hugger. Today: Notes on survival for the motherless humans weathering this Mother’s Day—and for all of you whose hearts live with grief, today and everyday.

HI

Tender heart,

I won’t pretend to know the magnitude of your loss (isn’t that the worst—those long glances presuming pity, understanding, a mutuality of grief?), but I want you to know I’m here. With you. On an internet suddenly overflowing with commodified mother worship *for just one day a year*, I am offering you a safe space. A place to let every part of you that hurts simply just be. It’s ok that it hurts. I get it—my mother died when I was twenty-four.

I’ve lived the past sixteen years as a motherless daughter, which means so much more than just the facts: that I lost my best friend, my greatest champion, the first source of unconditional love in my life, the first mirror of humanity in whose reflection I learned to understand myself. The person I felt safest with, both for better and for worse.

The first years after she died were a wash of tears and fury and confusion. I was heartbroken and bewildered. I had to learn how to walk this world without her. I felt like a toddler, not knowing what was safe, what was steady, what was real, what was just a flash in the pan mirage of safety, steadiness, care. I had to relearn it all.

And fuck, it hurt. It all hurt. Did you know scientific studies show that emotional loss and grief can trigger the same nerve pathways as physical pain? What you’re feeling right now—the squirming discomfort, the heart fracture, the claustrophobia of jealousy, the anxiety of loneliness, the spiky rage of unfairness—all of that manifests in the body. The emotional pain is also real, physical pain. Not that we needed scientists to tell us so.

On an instinctual, animal level, learning to live as a motherless daughter also meant I had to discover ways both to mother and to reparent myself. To begin to repair.

I wrote. I went to therapy. I let myself feel. And at first, I looked for the mothering I missed from my father. But that often ended in disappointment or anger: I wanted him to say the things she used to, to hug me the way she had, to listen with the heart she held open for me, always. I wasn’t exactly looking for love in all the wrong places, but I also wasn’t looking for love in a way that would grow me up.

I realized I needed to mother myself, to give myself the care I imagined she’d give me. I let myself fall apart when I needed, and gave myself pep talks when I felt despair. I did my best never to turn away. 

Even now, I feel no shame in wrapping my arms around myself. I breathe through the emotional hurt of loss. At night, single and alone, I make space for tears. I hold onto talismans she gave me—a rose quartz heart, a goodbye note—reminders not just of her love, but of the self-compassion I’ve had to summon to keep my heart open after so much breaking.

Nothing about this work is easy. Caring for oneself like this often looks sexy—or worse, easy—from afar, when in fact it’s actually survival. It’s an all-out fight for your own heart and mind. And it demands all parts of you on deck and willing. I listen to myself, and I’m not always *chill*, but I am honest. Like a good mother. I refuse to abandon myself.

While the process can feel lonely, please remember you are not alone. It’s ok to ask for help. See a therapist. Ask a friend for a hug. Set boundaries. Log off. Be honest about what you need to survive—and then do something about it.

You, out there doing what you must to care for yourself, working through it, getting up every day, taking account of what you need and then asking for it, opening your mind and your heart again and again, healing—I want you to know I see you.

You, afraid and unsure how to move forward, I see you, too. I know it’s hard. 

And then, too, there are moments of transcendence. Sometimes, washing dishes, driving, or mid-sentence, I feel my mom. She comes in a shift of air pressure, a quickening, an atmospheric recognition. Suddenly, she is with me, a hand on my heart.

So I turn off the faucet. Set down the glass. Let the water stream off my fingertips. Allow her presence to wash through me. Let myself receive the mothering I so often long for.

When the quickening passes, I wonder if it's the child or the adult in me missing her. I wonder what part of my brain conjured her. I wonder if I would remember her differently if I'd known her as I am now. An adult. Individuated.

What would we talk about? Fight about? Cry over? Could we just be ourselves, together?

This grief grew me up. But I still long to be mothered, at times. Don't you?

Every day, and especially during the onslaught of this time of year, I remember the ways she taught me to love, to cherish, to care for myself. I remember the ways she loved me imperfectly, so that I could learn to love myself—and my own beloveds—more fully.

I remember to stop abandoning my own heart. I remember to keep choosing myself.

I remember to keep loving you, too. Thank you for being with your heart, your self, in every tide of loss.

Find more resources for weathering grief and loss on my website.

SOME HOT LINKS

To listen.

This Radiolab episode on “Memory and Forgetting”: Did you know that the more you draw upon a memory, the less accurate it becomes? Zomg.

“The Question Trap” on This American Life brought many tears and laughs—especially Act Two.

To watch.

Watched Mark Duplass and Sterling K. Brown’s “Biosphere” last night and…whoa. We need to discuss.

"HACKS" IS BACK. Season 3. If you haven’t seen Seasons 1 and 2, start there. Delight will ensue.

To read.

This compendium of odes to the mother figures who offer care, whether or not they’re parents.

For the littles and parents in your life, preorder Rebecca Walker’s beautiful forthcoming children’s book, Time For Us.

Awe! Beauty! Solar storms! Northern lights in unprecedented places!

STAY SANE

Wishing you ease, care, and big aurora borealis energy.

See you in a couple weeks!

xo,

Lily