Once again I find myself in a place of wanting to share as the holiday comes to call.
Each and every year has been different. Some are harder than others. Some years have an extra bit of hope dashed or a nostalgic tinge for trying.
This year hurts, leading up to, as I always do, but with a new kind of pain. One of starting a new life, of the faintest of possibilities giving me a hope I don’t think I can afford to feel. Almost like I could entertain a brief flicker of hope, but knowing it could cause a spiral so fast and hard I won’t see the ground coming.
I miss my mother, I know that she feels very isolated on Mother’s Day now with my brother and I out of town. My sister has two children and always feels disappointed on this day, and while she reaches out to me to vent, my protective instinct takes over as I reassure her briefly and then tell her I’m busy.
There are more women in my life expecting them there have been over the last few Mother’s Days and that always makes it harder. Spring and the whiff of new baby is a powerful drug I can’t allow myself to notice too much.
My plan for tomorrow is to stay at home, treat myself to an indulgent brunch, enjoy the day without putting myself at much more risk of harm. Call my mom, quickly. Text my sister and hide out for the remainder.
I remind myself that preservation is important, and that knowing my limit is smart. I don’t need to place additional pressure on myself to get over it. If after all these years, I still grieve, I’m probably never completely getting over it.