Hello friends,

I hope this blog finds you well. I know we’ve been touching on some pretty heavy topics, and I pray the things I write bring you some comfort during the hard times, like not having your mom during Mother’s Day.

From my corner tonight… this one is for the daughter who still reaches for her mother in the quiet.

There are certain kinds of missing that settle into the body in ways words can’t fully hold. A kind of ache that doesn’t ask for permission — it simply rises, unannounced, in the soft hours of the evening or in the stillness of early morning. If you are carrying that kind of ache tonight, I want to honor you gently.

Mother’s Day has a way of stirring what we thought had settled. It brings memory to the surface — sometimes tender, sometimes sharp, always honest.

I never celebrated Mother’s Day with my own mom. The church I was raised in didn’t allow such things, and by the time I left, the relationship had already fractured beyond recognition. So while I don’t know the grief of losing a mother to death, I do know the grief of losing a mother in life. And grief, in all its forms, reshapes us.

Maybe that’s why I hold my sons so close. Why their visits feel like sunlight. Why their voices on the phone feel like home. Why this year, all I want is a quiet Mother’s Day — no crowds, no noise, just the simple holiness of family.

But tonight isn’t about me. Tonight is for you — the daughter whose mother is no longer here to call, to hug, to sit beside, to ask for advice, to laugh with, to simply exist in the same room.

There are absences that stay shaped like a person. Shaped like her laugh. Shaped like her hands. Shaped like the way she knew you without needing the full story.

If you are moving through this season with a hollow place where her voice used to be, hear me clearly:

You are not grieving wrong. You are not “too emotional.” You are not supposed to be over it by now.

Love this deep doesn’t disappear. It echoes.

Maybe that’s why today feels tender in a way you can’t quite name. Maybe you felt her in the way the light moved across the room. Maybe you reached for a recipe she taught you. Maybe a phrase slipped out of your mouth and you heard her in it. Maybe you found yourself missing her in a way that surprised you.

If so, let that be okay. Let that be holy.

Your mother is not gone from you. Not really.

She lives in the way you comfort others. She lives in the way you straighten a blanket. She lives in the way you stir a pot. She lives in the way you pause before offering advice. She lives in the way you love — fiercely, imperfectly, wholeheartedly.

If today hurts, it’s because she mattered. Because she shaped you. Because she is woven into the person you became.

So if you need to cry, cry. If you need to talk to her, talk. If you need to sit quietly and let the ache move through you, do that.

There is no wrong way to miss your mother.

And if no one has told you this yet today, let me be the one:

She would be proud of you. She would recognize herself in your tenderness. She would see her strength in your resilience. She would be grateful for the way you carry her forward.

You are her living echo.

As Mother’s Day approaches, remember this: Your mother once walked this same path. She, too, most likely had to say goodbye to her own mother. She carried her grief in the way she needed. You are allowed to do the same.

Whatever you choose to do this Mother’s Day — honor her, remember her, speak her name, sit in silence, create a new ritual, or simply breathe — may it bring you comfort. May it remind you that she lives on in you.

Evolving in grace,

Dawna‑Rae 🦋 may your heart return to itself again and again