My mother’s day

A Eulogy, a Transition, and a Middle Finger to Expectations

So here’s the truth. This isn’t one of those glossy, pastel-filtered Mother’s Day posts where I talk about how #blessed I feel while holding a mimosa in one hand and trauma in the other.

This is my first Mother’s Day without my own mom.
Another one without my son.
And I’m writing this from a half-empty apartment that smells like grief, dust, and broken timelines. I have to be fully out of here in two weeks. The echoes in the walls are louder than the furniture ever was. – The silence is paralyzing. 

Mia and I are… at war, I guess. Or maybe I finally dropped my sword. I’m tired. I’m letting her win this round, not because I’m weak—but because I don’t have it in me to keep explaining myself to people who don’t see the battlefield I crawled across to make this life happen. Nikita’s been cold too and mean. It stings. Especially when you’ve sacrificed damn near everything for people who now act like it was expected. Like I owed them.

This Mother’s Day doesn’t feel like a celebration. It feels like a funeral. Not just for the people I lost—but for the version of me that held everything together when it was all falling apart.

This Mother’s Day i set boundaries. With my kids. with some family. no one can use me anymore. i’m setting a new precedence on how i will be treated. 

🎭 Cameron’s Mom
That identity is dissolving. Slowly. Painfully. Truthfully.
I created her in survival. She was fierce, exhausted, armored. And now… she’s done. She got me here. But she can’t take me any further.

Mia’s becoming a mother this year. I’ll still be her mom, but it’s different now. She’s crossing that threshold, and I’m watching from the shore, unable to guide. No manual. No applause. Just silence and a whole lot of reflection.

Today, I’m not baking casseroles or hanging up decorations.
I’m grieving.
I’m reminiscing.
I’m crying into boxes I haven’t opened since before the world ended the first time.
I’m letting go.
Of the old apartment. The old roles. The old me.

There is no guidebook for what to do when Mother’s Day feels like a gut punch. So I’m writing my own:

If today hurts, you’re not broken.

If no one shows up for you, that doesn’t mean you’re unworthy.

If you’re letting go of a past life, know this: ashes make the best soil for something new.

This year, I’m honoring the kind of motherhood that doesn’t get enough credit—the kind that sacrifices in silence, shatters behind closed doors, and keeps showing up anyway. I was a good mom. I am a good mom. Even if today, it doesn’t feel like enough.

 This one’s for all the mothers who mothered alone.
For the ones who lost their children.
For the ones who lost their own mothers and still had to function.
For the ones transitioning out of the role they once held with every fiber of their being.

It’s the end of something.
And maybe… eventually… the beginning of something else.
But for now, I’m just letting it end.