Before you roll your eyes at another post about flowers and forced gratitude - just give me a moment.

A few years ago, I came downstairs on Mother’s Day quietly hoping for magic. Handmade cards. Effort. Some visible proof that all the invisible labour had been clocked. Instead - crumbs. Squabbling. And a whisper of, “Oh no… is it today?”

And there it was. That small, sharp voice - Do I matter?

But what if Mother’s Day isn’t a test of how well our children appreciate us? What if it’s a snapshot of where they are developmentally?

Little ones love loudly. Tweens love awkwardly. Teenagers love in ways we don’t always see.

We ask them, on this one Sunday, to perform gratitude on cue. And that’s quite a big ask. So now, instead of measuring the day by how well they celebrate me, I sometimes use it to notice how they’re changing. How they’re stepping out of orbit. How they’re becoming themselves.

That doesn’t mean we don’t deserve appreciation - we do. Deeply. But perhaps the more powerful question is this: can we feel solid in our mothering without needing it to be mirrored back perfectly? Especially not on a day when they’ve been told to say thank you.

There’s something quietly liberating about appreciating ourselves. Knowing what we carry. Knowing how much we love. Knowing the unseen effort.

Mother’s Day doesn’t get to decide whether we matter.

Thank you for pausing with me. Take care.

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