“No one ever warned me that grief could feel so much like fear.” –C.S. Lewis
As I lay in the hospital bed, preparing to welcome my baby into the world, I found myself wishing desperately for the anesthesiologist to hurry. More than that, I yearned for a motherly presence to soothe my anxious heart. I envisioned her there, holding my hand, whispering that everything would be alright and that the pain would soon fade. Her reassuring words would have been a balm, reminding me that I could embrace motherhood with confidence.
But I am a motherless mother.
Instead of a mother beside me celebrating the arrival of her grandchild, I had my partner and the weight of unprocessed grief. It felt as though I was mourning a loss, even though I had never experienced having a mother. I lacked that guiding figure who could inspire and prepare me for the challenges of motherhood, leaving me to navigate this uncharted territory on my own. Here I was once again, stepping into the unknown without the support I so desperately craved.
I am a motherless mother.
My partner often calls me a “strong woman,” and I won’t disagree. I have faced numerous challenges in my life, emerging with scars but also an optimistic belief in my ability to face whatever comes my way. I learned to depend on myself and to seek support from my spouse. Yet, after giving birth to my son, I found myself in a hospital room without a mother to call and share the joy of his arrival. My heart ached for that comforting presence, to reassure this frightened girl that she would be a wonderful mom.
I am a motherless mother.
Those initial months of parenting felt incredibly isolating. This new isolation magnified my sense of loneliness. I didn’t have a mother who would pop in uninvited, eager to catch a glimpse of her grandchild. As I navigated this solitude, my longing for a mother morphed into a paralyzing fear. I worried that I might become the kind of mother I had known: harsh, distant, and unable to bond with my child. This fear spiraled into postpartum anxiety, leaving me sleepless for months, my mind racing with endless what-ifs.
I am a motherless mother.
I battled undiagnosed insomnia and anxiety, convinced that motherhood was a journey I couldn’t tackle alone. Eventually, I accepted my doctor’s offer of a sleep aid and filled my days with the company of other mothers who inspired and supported me, sharing laughter and tears. Gradually, the fog of fear lifted, and I recognized that I was navigating motherhood successfully and not alone.
My son is about to turn one, and thankfully, I now enjoy restful nights without being consumed by grief and fear. Like anyone who has faced loss, I knew I needed to keep moving forward, leaning into my resilience and surrounding myself with my husband, my son, and my cherished friends.
Yet, I am still a motherless mother.
Though my mother hasn’t passed, the ache in my heart remains, reminding me that motherless mothers—whether due to death, abandonment, or fractured relationships—experience profound loss. I know that waves of grief can crash over me unexpectedly, ready to pull me under.
Perhaps it will happen when I hear my son say, “I love you” for the first time, or as I watch him wave goodbye on his first day of school. Whenever that familiar sense of loss strikes, I know it will hurt. But I also know I will rise again, embracing life and cherishing every joyful moment.
Because I am a mother.