I just learned that Anna Jarvis, the founder of Mother’s Day in the U.S., had spent the last years of her life protesting its turn to commercialism. The inspiration behind her push for Mother’s Day had been her own mom—a social activist during the Civil War who buried eight of her twelve children. But when the greeting card and floral industries later profited from the occasion, Jarvis soured. 

I also just learned that beginning in 2010, the first Sunday of May has been deemed International Bereaved Mother’s Day. As the name suggests, this day is for mothers whose children are no longer here.

Clearly, Mother’s Day can be complicated.

The empathetic soul I was born with always wondered how earmarking a day to honor mothers would feel for those unable to be in the club? And what about for those who buried a child? Or for those with estranged relationships? Because my soul is also pragmatic, I tend to agree with Jarvis that the day has become overly commercialized. Capitalism has found its way into too many of our culture’s nooks and crannies, even on a day set aside to thank women who bring life into the world.

I’m a bereaved mother, but Mother’s Day is not typically charged for me. Maybe I’d feel differently if my daughter had lived long enough for me to celebrate the day with her. But she was born still, so I’ve only observed and imagined the joys and trials of motherhood, and never experienced them personally. When Mother’s Day comes, I might feel a pang, but I’m not fraught. Now my daughter’s birthday—aka the day she died—is another story. That time of year is always a tender one, and at some point, sorrow predictably finds me. That’s when my mind conjures up a version of my life with my daughter in it, and I mourn what we both lost.

I feel a special kinship to any woman who’s lost a child. We’re part of a longstanding sisterhood, with new members always joining. I respect those mothers who are glad for the special acknowledgment afforded them on Bereaved Mother’s Day. But personally, it’s not for me. For one, I’m oddly private (my memoir is coming out in two months; ask me if I’m at all anxious!). But also, anyone who’s suffered the punishing death of a baby knows that our grief is never finished. I’ve come to expect that unexpected moments of sadness will show up unannounced for the rest of my days. So for me, setting aside one day to publicly declare that I’m bereaved seems unnecessary.

Despite the death of my one child, I do think of myself as a mother, albeit an unusual one. My daughter and I never had the chance to look into each other’s eyes. Still, I feel a visceral connection to her and believe we’ll be together in the next life. Today, my own mother is very much in my life. She’s 81 and going strong, and I’m grateful for her good health and sharp mind. And I’m grateful for our relationship. I’m at the ripe age of ‘double-nickels,’ and I still pick up the phone to share all sorts of trivia with my mother. She knows when I’ve had a migraine, she knows all the players in my office, and she knows where my significant other and I went for dinner. Poor thing must dread seeing my name show up on her Caller ID.

My mother and I have plenty of differences, but on the temperament front, we walk the planet as kindred spirits. I inherited her sensitivity, which means the good, the bad, and the ugly can easily move me. Trust me, feeling so much can be damn exhausting. And for those with different wiring, it’s hard to explain my occasional need to retreat from the noisy world and seek sanctuary on my sofa. Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers, understands:

“People always told me, ‘You’ve got to get a thicker skin,’. . . 
Believe me, if I could, I would, and in the meantime I feel like 
stabbing you in the forehead.” 

Like Lamott, my mother also understands. Sometimes our phone calls are from our respective sofas.

A future Mother’s Day will arrive, I know, when my mother won’t be here. This already complicated day will become more so when I’ll mark it as a bereaved mother and a bereaved daughter. Ouch. But no need to indulge my sensitive self with anticipatory grief. I will celebrate this year’s Mother’s Day as I always have: with gratitude for my own mother and the life she gave me, and with prayers for my daughter and the life I wish I could have given her.

Wherever you fall on the spectrum of Mother’s Day feelings, here’s wishing your day is filled with peace.