15/03/2026
This is my second Mother’s Day without my mum.
This morning I’m in London. I had breakfast with family, smiled, chatted, and then came back to my hotel room to sit quietly with my memories of her.
Grief is a strange companion like that. It arrives in the quiet spaces.
When I was younger, my mum and I clashed a lot. We argued. We saw the world very differently at times. Back then, I didn’t have the understanding I have now.
But adulthood has a way of softening things.
As I grew older, I began to see her differently. I saw the woman behind the role of “mum”. Her struggles. Her worries. The things she carried that I never fully understood at the time.
And one thing I know with absolute certainty, she was loyal to a tee. She was always in my corner.
If I was unwell, she’d be on my doorstep with soup and bread. No questions asked. Just care.
Over the years I’ve spent time unravelling some of the beliefs I formed growing up, and replacing them with something much gentler… compassion. For her, and for myself.
I just wish I’d told her more often that I understood.
Mother’s Day can be a beautiful day for many people. But for others it can feel complicated, tender, even painful.
Maybe the day doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it can simply be a day for compassion.
For remembering.
For understanding the women who raised us a little more deeply, even if that understanding arrived later in life.
Today I’m holding my mum in my heart. 🤍