Mother’s Day on the Porch

For everyone who has had a mother. For everyone who is a mother. For everyone who longs to be.

I’m sitting on the porch this morning with Mother’s Day in the air the way certain days arrive—softly, loudly, beautifully, painfully… sometimes all at once.

Some holidays feel simple.
Mother’s Day rarely does.

Because to have a mother is to have a story.
And to be a mother is to have a story.
And to long for motherhood—whether in the body, the heart, or the hope—is also to have a story.

So before we say anything polished today, I want to say something true:

Mother’s Day can be wonderful.
And Mother’s Day can be deeply complicated.

And you don’t need to choose one.

You’re allowed to hold both.

Some of you have a mom who felt like home.

She wasn’t perfect—but she was present.
She knew your face.
She understood your nervous system before you had language for it.
She made room for your feelings.
She showed up.

If that’s your story, let today be a day of gratitude without guilt.
You don’t have to downplay your goodness because someone else didn’t have it.
Love is a gift. And when it was steady, it deserves to be celebrated.

Call her.
Write her.
Sit with her memory.
Say her name out loud.
Let your heart soften.

Some of you love your mother… and also feel tender places you don’t know what to do with.

Maybe she did the best she could with what she had—and what she had wasn’t enough.
Maybe she was loving and also unsafe.
Maybe she was emotionally absent.
Maybe she was overwhelmed, anxious, angry, controlling, critical, disconnected, or unpredictable.
Maybe she parented you through her wounds without knowing she was doing it.

If that’s your story, I want to speak gently to you:

You don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt in order to be “a good person.”
You don’t have to rewrite your history to keep the peace inside your body.

You are allowed to honor what was good.
And you are allowed to grieve what was missing.

Both can be true.

Some of you aren’t calling your mom today.

Not because you’re cruel.
Because you’ve had to choose boundaries.
Because contact has been harmful.
Because reconciliation would require a reality that isn’t available.

If today brings guilt, let me offer you a different frame:

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for your own life and for the generations after you—is to stop normalizing what harmed you.

Boundaries aren’t betrayal.
They are often the first form of self-respect a nervous system has ever known.

Some of you are missing your mom today.

You might miss her in the obvious ways—her voice, her hands, her laugh.
Or you might miss her in the quieter ways—the mother you never had, the mother you needed, the mother you keep hoping she might become.

Grief shows up in both kinds of absence.

And if Mother’s Day makes that grief louder, you’re not “too sensitive.”
You’re honest.

You’re human.

It’s okay to cry today.
It’s okay to feel angry.
It’s okay to feel nothing at all.
It’s okay to need the world to be softer with you.

Some of you are mothers and today is tender in a different way.

Maybe you’re proud.
Maybe you’re tired.
Maybe you’re carrying invisible labor no one sees.
Maybe you’re grieving a version of motherhood you didn’t get.
Maybe you’re mothering children with medical needs, neurodivergence, trauma, big emotions, or complicated relationships.
Maybe you’re mothering adult kids and learning new forms of letting go.

If you are a mother, I want you to hear this with warmth:

You don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
Your consistency matters more than your perfection.
Your repair matters more than your performance.

A “good mother” isn’t the one who never misses.
It’s the one who comes back.
Who tries again.
Who tells the truth.
Who repairs.
Who learns.
Who stays human.

If no one has said it to you lately: thank you.
Not for being flawless—
for loving in a world that asks too much of mothers.

Some of you want this day so badly you can taste it.

Maybe you’re waiting.
Maybe you’ve lost pregnancies.
Maybe you’re walking through infertility.
Maybe you’re single and grieving timing.
Maybe you’re in the adoption or fostering journey.
Maybe motherhood looks different than you once imagined, but the longing is still real.

If that’s you, I want to name what the world often minimizes:

Your longing is not trivial.
Your grief is not “being dramatic.”
Your love is already real—because desire is a form of love.

Today, be gentle with yourself.
Unfollow what hurts.
Leave the brunch if you need to.
Take the walk.
Let yourself be held by someone safe.

And if you are mothering in ways that don’t get Hallmark cards—mentoring, teaching, fostering, coaching, counseling, auntie-ing, grandparenting, being the safe person—please hear me:

That counts.
That matters.
That changes lives.

Mother’s Day touches attachment—whether we say that word or not.

Because early mothering experiences often shape how we receive love, trust closeness, and interpret our worth.

When mothering was safe, we tend to breathe easier.
When mothering was confusing, we tend to brace.

So if today feels activating, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.
It means your body remembers.

And here’s the hope I want to place on the porch like a small lantern:

Even if you didn’t receive what you needed early… you can still have your needs met now.

Through friendships that feel steady.
Through partners who are safe.
Through therapy that helps you name what happened without being consumed by it.
Through community that doesn’t require you to perform.
Through boundaries that protect your dignity.
Through learning how to mother yourself in the places you were left alone.

You can become a safe home for you.

And in doing so, you become a safer person for others to love, too.

If today is joyful, may your joy be full and unashamed.

If today is painful, may your pain be held with tenderness.

If today is complicated, may you give yourself permission to hold more than one truth at the same time.

May you honor what you received.
May you grieve what you didn’t.
May you celebrate the mothers who loved well.
May you protect yourself from what was not safe.
May you remember that your worth is not decided by your relationship with your mother, your ability to mother, or your longing to be one.

And may you feel, even for a moment today, the kind of love that doesn’t demand you be anything other than human.

Kristi M. Estrada, LPC-S, NCC, SEP is a Licensed Professional Counselor–Supervisor and Somatic Experiencing® Practitioner based in Phoenix, Arizona. She specializes in trauma-informed care, adult attachment theory, and post-traumatic growth—helping clients navigate life’s most challenging seasons with compassion, clarity, and steadiness. Kristi believes healing is not about “fixing” what’s broken, but about honoring each person’s story, returning to the body’s wisdom, and building the capacity to live with greater peace and self-worth. Her work integrates nervous system regulation, somatic practices, and relational healing to create a safe, supportive space for transformation.

Connect: @healingservant.com

Educational/Reflection Disclaimer: This reflection is for educational and reflective purposes only and is not a substitute for therapy, medical care, diagnosis, or crisis support. If you feel overwhelmed or unsafe, please seek support from a qualified professional or local resources.