When Mother's Day Hits the Fan

A Reflection on Loving, Losing, and Letting the Day Be What It Is

It started beautifully.

I woke up to sunshine, a clean-ish house, and handmade school creations from my kids.  (They’d requested I “hide” them in a closet all weekend so I’d be properly surprised when the time was right.) 

My daughter brought me her favorite stuffy, White Kitty, to snuggle with while I lounged. My son brought me a chocolate muffin in bed and carried a message to Dad that I’d like some coffee. I felt so seen, so loved, so rooted in this little family.

The brunch food was prepped, mostly. The kitchen sparkled, kinda. The trampoline was doing its job as the Great Energy Absorber of 2025.

Family came over. We laughed. We drank coffee and juice out of plastic cups. There were second helpings. People smiled like they meant it.

And then—life, in its absolutely bonkers timing, showed up and sucker punched us right in the throat.

Right before everyone was about to leave there was a kerfuffle–a lofty one–between a kiddo and our foster dog (who we’re keeping on behalf of a loved one who’s been in and out of the hospital for months following a stroke and a stack of complications that just won’t quit). 

In the span of sixty seconds, the emotional weather system in my house went from “sunny with a breeze” to “Category 5.” I was crying. The kids were confused. My mom, already stretched thin from her own caregiving stress, was overwhelmed. My husband, who is grieving the loss of his grandfather, stressed about his dad’s health, and wondering how we’re going to fix his car in time for a trip we may or may not take, was doing that thing where you hold your breath just to stay upright.

Then came a call from his sister: their brother had slipped into a diabetic coma. (I’m sorry, what?!) Oh, and the hospital called again: their dad had another stroke–or several–no one was quite sure.

All of this in the span of hours.

And now—this is the part I hate admitting—I feel guilty for being upset on Mother’s Day.

Guilty that I cried in front of my kids.

Guilty that I couldn’t hold it together when the whole day was supposed to be about love and celebration.

Guilty that tomorrow, when the teacher asks, “Did everyone have a special time celebrating Mother’s Day?” my kids might say, “My mom cried.”

That’s what’s eating at me now. Not the trauma. Not even the chaos. But the idea that this might be what they remember.

Because even though I know I’m human, and that emotions are healthy, and that crying isn’t a sign of weakness—I’m still carrying that internal pressure to make the day feel perfect for them. To be a memory they can glow about. Not tiptoe around.

But here’s the truth I’m working on believing: it’s okay if they saw me cry. Maybe even good.

Because life isn’t always shiny. Sometimes it’s a freaking mess, even on holidays. And if they can learn to see that and still feel safe, still feel loved, still feel like our family is a place where hard things happen but people stay kind—that’s a gift too.

It was not a bad Mother’s Day. It was a bad day that happened to fall on Mother’s Day.

And now that I’ve thought on it, cried about it, and eaten a piece of cold meatloaf straight out of the container, I can say this: 

My kids and husband were the bright spots. The safe places. The tiny, glimmering reasons I could still whisper “thank you” to the universe through gritted teeth.

So if your Mother’s Day didn’t look like a Hallmark movie either—if it was chaotic or complicated or colored in shades of stress and sorrow—you’re not broken. You’re just living in a world where love and fear and gratitude and grief take turns driving the car.

Sometimes, all in one afternoon.

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MoveMaker Media is a place for the stories in between. The ones that don’t tie up with a bow. The ones where the dog won’t stop barking, the phone rings, and you still manage to find a breath, a laugh, or a leftover cupcake. Here’s to you, and whatever your day looked like.