Breaking Cycles: A Mother’s Day Reflection on Presence and Pain

Mother’s Day is often portrayed as a sacred day set aside for moms — a day of perfect moments, laughter, smiles, breakfast in bed, and a house cleaned without asking. Growing up, though, Mother’s Day felt like an obligation to leave my mom alone — because that’s what she wanted. I was taught that solitude was what she needed, but what I really felt was absence. And in that void, I made a vow: my children will never feel that way. It’s the day when everything is supposed to revolve around her, and the world pauses to celebrate all she does. But what happens when the reality of motherhood doesn’t align with the picture-perfect image sold to us by the world?

Growing up, Mother’s Day felt like a day shrouded in high expectations. We were told to let our mom rest, to leave her alone because that’s what she wanted. But what I really think is that behind that request for solitude is a deeper need — one that only motherhood can create — the need to breathe amidst the chaos.

No one warns you about the gut-wrenching sacrifices and raw pain that motherhood can bring. The moments when you feel like you can’t keep going but have no choice because someone is counting on you to show up. The moments when your child is suffering, and you’d give anything to trade places with them. The moments when the life you envisioned as a mother looks nothing like the reality you’re living.

This Mother’s Day, the weight hit me harder than ever. I used to think the season that followed the loss of our daughter was the hardest. The ache of her absence, the bittersweet blessing of Jax who came after, and the questions he is now starting to ask as he notices the reminders of his sister around the house. While he’s too young to understand, one day he will grasp the depth of his name, Jax — “God has been gracious and shown favor.”

But this year, I found myself unable to celebrate. How do you celebrate motherhood when the daily reality is filled with watching your children suffer, with advocating through rotating doors of specialists, with holding your breath as you cling to hope in the face of uncertainty?

The morning that should have been uneventful was anything but. The simple task of getting out of bed and coming downstairs set off a cascade of overstimulation for Logan. As he lay on the kitchen chair crying, his head pounding, the light too much, his body on fire and shaking uncontrollably, the thought of going to church seemed impossible. Yet in that moment, I had to make a choice — to let him feel defeated or to help him push through.

So we battled. We fought for every small win — putting on a shirt, applying deodorant, taking one step at a time. For Logan, that was his hard. At fifteen, his hard was simply standing up, putting on a shirt, walking outside. His sister wrapped her arm around him to help him walk into church, her little body carrying a weight far greater than her years. And behind them, our youngest followed suit, mirroring the gentle support of his sister.

There was beauty in the pain. They walked arm in arm into the church, up the center aisle, late as usual, with Logan barely making it without support, sunglasses on and noise-canceling headphones in place. He did the hard thing — not for himself but for me. And as we sat there, the tears fell. Familiar faces embraced us, and I could feel their silent prayers surrounding us.

When the service ended, Logan knelt at the altar as we prayed over him. The final worship song began, and the words washed over me:

"May His favor be upon you and a thousand generations, and your family and your children, and their children, and their children..."

It was the same song that God had spoken to my heart months ago. And there we were, on Mother’s Day, kneeling at the altar, surrounded by our church family, surrendering Logan’s health and healing to the One who sees it all.

Later, my husband said it felt like the entire church was singing that prayer over us. And maybe they were. Maybe that was the real gift this Mother’s Day — not a bouquet of flowers or a card, but the reminder that even in the hard things, in the exhaustion and tears, in the moments when motherhood feels more like battle than celebration, God is still present.

Motherhood is not about a designated day on the calendar. It’s about breaking cycles, too — the ones that robbed me of so much as a child. Drugs, alcohol, and abuse stole moments, safety, and a sense of being seen. My kids will never know that pain. They will never question my love or my presence. They will never feel the sting of abandonment. Because for them, I will always be here, showing up — even on the days when showing up feels like a battle. It’s about showing up every single day, no matter how broken or weary, because love doesn’t take a day off. And neither do moms.