I Cried While Writing This

on learning to mother myself.

A quick heads-up: Today’s essay touches on grief and (U.S.) Mother’s Day. If you have complicated feelings around this time (me too), I wrote it with you in mind. But if you’d rather avoid the whole topic, you can safely skip ahead to the weekly card, or tune in next week. Thank you for reading.

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Over the last eight weeks (they start early!) I have received no fewer than 437 emails peddling flowers and jewelry and pajamas and books and custom framing and ceramics and “bundles” of various kinds. This figure does not include dozens of targeted ads and assorted gift guides.

Of this avalanche, only two brands asked if I’d prefer to opt out of Mother’s Day promos. Exactly zero asked if I’d like to opt out of email marketing, late-stage capitalism, or the month of May. (All yes, as it were.)

“THERE’S STILL TIME,” shouted one unfortunately worded subject line, “TO SHOW MOM YOU CARE.”

There isn’t, actually.

As a motherless daughter with no children of my own, this day is not for me. Yet the feelings it stirs up aren’t fully of me, either. I don’t begrudge mothers a measly brunch in the face of a system that doesn’t support them. I don’t begrudge anyone the space to celebrate their life choices — in any shape, form, or direction — however they wish.

What I bump on is the question of performing instead of relating. Time after time, we put the sell in celebration, without addressing what’s really at play. Our calendars grow ever packed with National Days and Weeks and Months, as our world is desperately in need of care.

There’s still a week to go. I shudder to think what may come.

*

People get prickly around the topic of motherhood, and for good reason. We cram so much into those three letters — a name, a job, an identity, wrapped in hopes and dreams, pressure and expectations. And because we are human, inevitable heartbreak, too.

So before we go further, this is not (exactly) a piece about mothers. This is about mothering — a verb, and a universal one at that.

*

There is an episode of Sex and the City titled “My Motherboard, My Self.” (If you’re familiar with the series, I feel you nodding in recognition.) It has the distinction of being the only episode I have viewed once in its entirety, despite re-watching the show some 37,642 times over the years, to the point of memorization.

The mere thought of this episode destroys me.

Amidst the usual flurry of dating and relating, Miranda’s mother unexpectedly dies. At the funeral, Miranda walks alone down the church aisle trailing her mom’s coffin, until Carrie rushes to walk beside her. It is mothering at its finest.

I suspect that as I watched this scene — seated next to my then-roommates who I count among my greatest loves, my own mother somewhere across the Hudson, a distance that was no rival for the chasm between her dreams and mine — I encountered a truth so raw, so essential, that it burned me to touch it.

Mothering is everywhere. Even when it’s not.

Only now, seated in another chapter, do I find this comforting.

*

My mother died five months ago. Grief comes with its own agenda, its own bouquet of surprises. But one positive is the mothering I have found in unexpected places.

A smile from a stranger.

Friends who check in, unprompted.

A customer service rep who actually cares.

Kind notes and emails (including from you, dear readers).

The person who became a founding member at the exact right moment, which felt like a hug (because I know you understand).

Dogs on the sidewalk who drag their people well out of the way to say hello.

Written words from people who’ve been there.

People who offer what feels like motherly advice. (Sometimes, I am touched by how it aligns with something my mom might say. Other times, I hear her whisper disagreement in my ear and nearly laugh over how much she’d hate it.)

I’ve come to think of them as my Coalition of Mothers, their roles ranging from cameo to recurring. They needn’t be parents themselves (some aren’t even human!) to qualify. Most have no idea of their participation.

The most surprising member is me.

*

I went to a women’s college. I am in therapy. I read tarot cards and write about feelings for a living. From a purely stereotypical standpoint, one might expect me to embrace terms like “reparenting” and “inner child” and “self-mothering.” But in practice, they make me want to ooze somewhere outside myself, like the emotional equivalent of a Cadbury egg.

I don’t want to commune with “little Caroline” because that strikes me as saccharine and gross, which is a surefire sign that I need to. But as a person with a history of negative self-talk, it has been helpful (transformative, even) to learn how to mother myself. It’s given me a new lease on life.

We’ve made self-care into a sideshow of bubble bath, when it is also the profoundly simple practice of caring for oneself — emotionally, physically, spiritually. It’s meeting ourselves with kindness and empathy. It’s doing our best to meet our own needs. It’s embracing ourselves as human, in a way we all deserve.

My proverbial refrigerator is a proud display of my efforts. My inner voice speaks with a ferocity of spirit I haven’t previously known. I learn as I go, changing course as needed. When it comes to Mother’s Day, or any day, I know this much: I can mother my way through it.

“Little Caroline” wanting to disappear for a moment.

*

Earlier this week, I went to buy a birthday card and was nearly gutted by the Mother’s Day display. It wasn’t just the cards or gifts or cheerful banners that did it, but a woman around my age who was browsing. She opened card after card, pausing to consider whether it struck the right note. She must’ve read two dozen before landing on a winner.

Must be nice, I thought, knowing nothing about this person or the shape of her maternal ties. Must be nice, my own past appearing through a different lens. Must be nice, the kaleidoscope shifting with every passing moment.

That’s the thing about appearances. We never know what we don’t yet know. Until the kaleidoscope turns, and the whole scene changes.

*

Perhaps the only memo more frequent than the Mother’s Day sales is the oft-repeated sentiment, “Next week will be hard for you.” I imagine this is true. But as anyone who grieves or breathes is well aware, a lot of days are difficult. Some without warning. Some without reason.

Since writing about my mother, I’ve received many heartfelt messages from people sharing their own stories. I’ve heard from those who’ve lost their moms, those who are estranged, those whose relationships are tangled or distant at best. I’ve heard from those in mourning — over people who have passed and others who are living, for relationships they do not have and words they will never hear. I’ve heard from those whose lives didn’t work out the way they hoped as they forge a different path.

To anyone having a hard time right now, I see you.

When you feel the longing, the ache, the disappointment. When you encounter a reminder, or an absence, or a void. When you’re confronted with a scene or headline or yet another email that makes you want to set the world on fire, I see you.  

I hope you do something kind for yourself. I hope you offer yourself the space to feel and the grace to know your own friendship. I hope you love yourself a little more — wholly, imperfectly, unconditionally — and then a bit more still.

It’s what a good mother would want.

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Thank you so much for being here, and for your support. ❤️

It means more than you know.

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

The Wild Unknown Tarot by Kim Krans

On the surface, The Magician is the card about magic. Or The High Priestess, with her book of secrets. But if you dig deep, I think The Hermit is the most magical card in the deck.

The Hermit is not a fan favorite, calling to mind a lonely quest. Even introverts are skeptical. How long is this journey? Is it arduous? Is it boring? Can we bring our phones?

This card wishes to remind us that retreats can take many forms. An hour without our screens, perhaps. A solo trip to the park. A spin around the block. A morning spent with a favorite book. An hourlong yoga class.

Outwardly, we can go together, but inwardly, we must go alone.

(Alone, with our own company.)

Some truths will only blossom in the quiet stillness of our own breath.

The Hermit knows there are some discoveries we can only make for ourselves. No one else can tell us what makes us, what moves us, what brings us alive. Even if we’ve done our fair share of soul-searching, it’s good practice to check in with ourselves from time to time, like a catch-up call with an old friend.

No matter the shape of our modern lives, it can feel difficult to carve out the time and space to realize our needs, never mind meet them. But this week’s card arrives to remind us: It is utterly essential.

We are not all that different from a device that begs to be turned off for thirty seconds and rebooted. (But we deserve a little more time.)

The iconic Smith-Waite tarot, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

As far as symbols go, the Hermit’s lantern is about as straightforward as they come — a beacon of vision, discovery, enlightenment, illumination. Yet it is a humble lantern, not a spotlight. It can only throw light so far. This is part of its wisdom.

This card always brings to mind the E.L. Doctorow quote, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” These words are relevant to writing and to life. The truth may be revealed to us slowly. The story unravels at its own pace.

The Hermit isn’t a flashy card, and neither are its lessons. But magic — not the abracadabra variety, but the everyday practice of acknowledging wonder — doesn’t need to involve a wand or a flame or an incantation. Just as often, it’s about noticing what is hidden in plain sight.

The Hermit wants you to uncover what resonates with you (and only you). Other people’s judgments, feedback, opinions, and preferences need not apply.

What do you believe? What moves you? What inspires you? What gives your days meaning?

The Hermit knows that the most resonant answers are those that live within you. It’s a place of endless discovery, if only you are willing to look. Don’t be afraid to seek for answers. Who knows what you’ll find?