The Mother of a Mother: Grieving on Mother’s Day

As Mother’s Day Approaches:

Mother’s Day holds a different weight for me now. And as it approaches I feel the tightness in my chest begin to creep in

It used to be a day filled with noise, laughter, love. And it still is, in many ways. I have living children who love me deeply and make me feel cherished on this day. But there’s a silence now too. An empty seat in my heart. Because I am also the mother of a daughter who is no longer here.

And she was a mother too.

This grief is layered. It's not just the loss of my child—it's the loss of a mother, and the ache of watching my grandchild navigate life without his. It's mourning for two generations at once: the child I raised, and the mother she was becoming. It’s watching Mother’s Day unfold around me with joy and celebration, while my heart splits open quietly beneath the surface.

Two Roles, One Heart: Grieving and Mothering

I’m still a mom. I’m still needed. My living children bring me purpose, laughter, and comfort. They remind me daily of why I keep going. They are my reason to get up, to try, to show up—even when my heart is heavy. And yet, being their mother doesn’t cancel out my grief. Just as grieving my daughter doesn’t lessen the love I have for the children still with me.

I live in this in-between space—where joy and sorrow walk hand in hand.

How Do You Find Joy in Grief?

The truth is, you don’t find joy the way you find something you’ve lost. You make space for it. You let it sit beside your sorrow without shame. You stop demanding that happiness be pure or uncomplicated. Because nothing about this is simple.

On Mother’s Day, I find joy in:

The laughter of my grandchildren, even when it’s tinged with longing.

The way my living children still say “Happy Mother’s Day” with bright eyes, even as they remember their sister.

The memories—the way she used to hold her baby, the strength she showed, the way she loved so fiercely.

Honoring Her

This Mother’s Day, I’ll remember her infectious smile. I’ll speak her name out loud. I’ll hug her child a little tighter. I’ll allow myself to cry, and then I’ll allow myself to smile. Because she was a beautiful mother. And she made me proud.

Grief doesn’t cancel celebration—it deepens it. It gives it roots. It reminds us that love is never lost, only transformed.

To You, If You’re Walking This Path Too

If you've lost a child who was also a mother, or if you're holding the grief of a layered loss on a day meant for joy—I see you. You are still a mother. Your grief is real. Your love is powerful. And your ability to keep going, to keep loving, to keep showing up—that’s nothing short of courageous.