Mother’s Day—a holiday of breakfast in bed, fresh flowers, homemade cards, and macaroni necklaces. Instagram feeds make us feel like all families are happy families. But Mother’s Day can be tricky. For many, a bouquet of flowers won’t make it less hard. I fall into this camp, too. For me, it’s always been complicated, having a love/hate relationship with Mother’s Day.

One sunny Monday in March, my mother died suddenly at just 36 years old. I was 14. It came during what is often a rocky time in the mother-daughter relationship—the dreaded teenage years, when daughters begin to crave an identity beyond simply being a mother’s child. Rebellion takes shape in small defiant acts: refusing to wear a hat in the cold because it’s not cool to wear one; staying out past curfew; rolling eyes; slamming doors. That was us in 1984, the year she died.

And, she was gone without warning. Not just the rug, but my whole foundation pulled out from under me. That day, we gathered at my grandparents’ house—the home where my mother had grown up. She was one of the oldest of nine children. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors came by, bringing food and hugs, both forms of comfort. I remember my father sitting silently at the end of my grandparents’ blue sofa, visibly shattered. Grief settled over the room, heavy and dark.

That night—less than eight hours after my mother died—I went to see the Broadway musical Cats at the Wang Theater. A family friend had tickets, and I jumped at the chance to escape the heaviness at home. I went with my cousin Tara and my best friend Christine. During intermission, we went to the lobby for candy and ran into a family friend, a mother of six who knew my mother and had heard the news. Shock and confusion crossed her face when she saw me—grief had made me unrecognizable in that moment. She didn’t know what to say, so she simply asked if we were enjoying the show. That response, awkward yet gentle, would become a familiar one.

What do you say to someone who’s lost her mother?

It made people uncomfortable. So, I learned to avoid it. I tried to outrun the grief, to bury it. But grief has a sneaky way of resurfacing when you least expect it.

Years later, shortly after college, I was sitting outside enjoying lunch with coworkers on a warm summer day. One of them asked why I never talked about my mother. For many women, mothers are a source of advice, guidance, and friendship. I didn’t have that. When I quietly replied, “My mother died when I was young,” the words cracked something open in me. I burst into tears.

And somehow, her absence, as opposed to her presence, shaped me. Without the experience of a mother-daughter bond, my identity was formed in the space where that relationship should have been. It was like sailing a boat without a rudder.

In 1984, childhood grief wasn’t well understood, especially within the Irish Catholic community where I grew up. The prevailing attitude was to bury it deep, push it aside, and hope it went away, never to be seen again. But then, something happened that made ignoring it impossible: 

I became a mother.

At 26, I gave birth to my daughter, Grace. Her arrival brought joy, but something else, too. I felt lost. I realized I needed my mother…but she wasn’t there.

Through therapy and the support of strong women in my life, I kept moving forward. The love I felt for my daughter became my compass. It filled the hole my own mother left behind, and gave me purpose. I wanted to be a good mother—to give her the love I had so desperately yearned for. I took one step at a time.

I still have memories of my mother, though they’ve faded with time. I remember riding in the back seat of her silver Mercury Monarch on the way to the Capitol Market in Dorchester, “Saturday in the Park” by Chicago playing on the radio. I remember her on the gold kitchen phone with the long curly cord, stretching across the room while she made tea. She loved clothes and shopping—traits I 100% inherited. I remember holidays filled with warmth: cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, a tradition I continue with my own children. I remember helping her cut lilacs in my grandmother’s backyard. The scent of lilacs in bloom still brings her back to me.

Today, I’m the mother of three adult children. I love them in the best way I know how—fully, fiercely, and without reservation. This Mother’s Day, I will let them celebrate me with gifts, cards, a special meal. But there’s also my mom’s absence, too. What she left behind. Who I became as a result of her dying. I am the mother I am today, because of my own mother. My grief for her changes shape over time. It softens, but it never disappears. And on Mother’s Day, I will stop running from it and let it in. Like my own mother with the long curly phone cord, making a cup of tea. Just for us. Just today. 

And now, life has come full circle: I recently found out I will become a grandmother in September. My daughter Grace is expecting a baby girl. And although it is bittersweet that my children and grandchildren will never get to meet my mother, I know now that it’s up to me to keep the love she gave to me alive. And to pass it on.