Mother's Day

It’s Mother’s Day. This is the day that you and I have been dreading for weeks. And as your stomach starts to twist into knots. And the tears you often hold back, will slowly begin to fall. It’s another year without a child to call your own. It’s another Mother’s Day with empty arms and an aching heart.

And I know it hurts.

It hurts because most days walking through infertility isn’t this hard. Most days it doesn’t weigh so heavily on your heart. Because for you, the grief of your struggle is like the rain. Usually, on most days, it is a light drizzle. Yet somehow causes you to hope for a brighter tomorrow. But then there are other days. Days like Mother’s Day in which you are surrounded by hundreds of moments. Moments that you can’t escape. Moments that remind you of what you are not. Yet somehow, in your mind, can’t help but feel that you must be unworthy to receive. And the grief from all of these moments? They come gushing down on you like a thunderstorm. They remind you of the emptiness you feel. The brokenness in your body. The the pain in your heart.

And I know it hurts.

It’s when the sweet cashier wished you a happy Mother’s Day. It was innocent. She didn’t know you were not a mother. She didn’t know you have been struggling to obtain the title for far too long. She didn’t know this exchange would bring on a thunderstorm of grief, leaving you sitting in the parking lot, soaked in tears being reminded of what you are not. But it did.

And I know it hurts.

And it’s the awkward moment when your pastor asks everyone who is a mother in the congregation to stand and be honored. To be recognized. And to be applauded. Oh how your heart aches. Because you want to stand. You want to be honored. But you can’t. And so you remain seated.

And as you courageously look around to see nearly every woman of childbearing age standing? And smiling? You feel alone. Even painstakingly different. And sometimes you might just skip going on that Sunday, like me.

And I know it hurts.

Everything hurts. Your heart. Your mind. Your body.

Mother’s Day it is not always flowers, greeting cards, dinners, and jewelry. It’s not always filled with moments that bring laughter and joy. At least not for you. Or millions (yes, millions) like you. Because although you might feel alone, forgotten and overlooked, especially on Mother’s Day, you are not. I see you.

I know this journey is tough. I know the moments of heartache and the disappointments each month. I know the waiting that seems to take forever. Or the days when you can’t seem to put one foot in front of the other. I know the prayers you pray, and the hope you hold with white knuckles. I know the painful emotions you feel guilty for having. And the standing ovation you deserve simply for not showing them. At least not in public. I know that someone should take you to dinner. Make you breakfast in bed. Or give you a greeting card. Because I know you need encouragement to keep walking this deep valley. But most of all? I know that you are worthy to stand with the other mother’s this Sunday. And you, sweet sister, are worthy to receive the beautiful flower with pride. Because I believe that whether you have a child in your arms, in heaven, or in waiting, you are a mom. And not just any mom. But the “Worlds Greatest Mom.” Because I once read that the most fertile place in a woman, is not in her womb. It is where true motherhood begins. Where it lives. And where it grows.

So sweet sister, I want you to do something a little different this year. I want you peel back the covers this Mother’s Day and celebrate YOU. And celebrate the hope you manage to carry that it won’t always be this hard.

But until then? Until your child is no longer just living in your heart, but also in your arms. And until you are waking up for 2am feedings or picking up the toys in the hallway, you are in my heart and in my prayers. Because I know that even with the hope you carry... this day… this journey… these painful moments… hurt.