On Mother’s Day, and the Grief Without a Name
Today is one of the hardest days of the year for me.
I’m not a mother.
Not in the traditional sense.
And while I usually stay quiet on days like this,
I want to speak—for those of us who carry this ache silently,
without cards, without flowers, without clear answers.
"Not all grief wears black. Sometimes it’s dressed to impress, walks fast through the city, and hopes no one notices it’s unraveling beneath the style."
Today, I honor every woman carrying this ache:
The aunties.
The teachers.
The caretakers.
The ones who mother the world in quiet, powerful ways.
The ones who grieve in silence.
The ones still hoping.
The ones who have made peace with a different path.
This isn’t a post for sympathy.
It’s a reminder that the tender parts of us deserve space too.
The truth is, I always wanted to be a mom.
In college, I was the girl with pillows under her shirt,
daydreaming baby names and planning a future I never got to hold.
I once bought a house and made a nursery
for children who never came.
It wasn’t a lack of desire.
It wasn’t a choice.
It just… didn’t happen.
People often assume I chose another life.
But what they don’t see
is how every Mother’s Day carries a quiet grief—
one that expands with age.
It’s a complicated kind of mourning.
And then, just now, as I typed this on the subway,
a little girl sat beside me.
She kept leaning in, smiling up at me.
Eventually, she asked:
“Do you have kids?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and told her no.
But that I get to meet sweet kids like her.
And that I also spend time with the little version of me—
the one who still needs to be parented,
who still needs to be reminded she’s magic,
who still deserves to be loved, chosen, and seen.
“Sometimes the ones we parent live inside us.”
Today, I honor every woman carrying this ache:
The aunties.
The teachers.
The caretakers.
The ones who mother the world in quiet, powerful ways.
The ones who grieve in silence.
The ones still hoping.
The ones who have made peace with a different path.
This isn’t a post for sympathy.
It’s a reminder that the tender parts of us deserve space too.
To my nieces and nephews:
Thank you for letting me love you with all the maternal energy I carry.
You are a gift to this heart of mine.
To the little girl on the subway:
Thank you for seeing me.
You reminded me that even in the depths of this ache,
there is still connection, still beauty,
still unexpected moments of being seen.
To this city:
Thank you.
For letting me cry on a subway.
For holding me on the sidewalks.
For giving me space to move through complicated grief—
in motion,
in stillness,
and everything in between.
“Like in A Ritual of Relief, the ache we carry often asks for presence, not fixing.”
If this reflection stirred something in you…
City Bathing is a practice that holds space for your tenderness.
Whether through 1:1 coaching, community walks, or quiet stillness in the city,
you don’t have to move through this alone.
