Yesterday was my first Mother’s Day without Ian.
I went to lunch with my mom, dad, my sister Natalie, her fiancé Hans, and their baby girl Jaidis—my niece who will turn one this July. It was a beautiful day, and I love them all deeply. But I felt strange. Out of place. Like I was sitting in the middle of two very different realities: one filled with new life and celebration, and one full of aching absence.
I was quiet for most of it. Sad, but trying. Holding my grief carefully—like a delicate glass bowl that no one else could see.
At one point, my mom asked about a few things, and I found myself talking about Keith. Some of the things he’s put me through. I cried a little. I hadn’t expected to. It wasn’t a dramatic moment—just a breaking open that needed to happen. And then I told them about Isaac’s recent psychological evaluation. I don’t know if they fully understood what that conversation cost me, emotionally. But I shared it anyway.
Natalie and Hans are getting married in less than two weeks. It hasn’t been easy for them, especially raising a baby. I helped more in the beginning—back when grief hadn’t yet swallowed my energy whole—but I haven’t been able to show up for them the way I normally would. I know they understand. But I still feel the gap.
Jaidis was born two months after Ian died.
A new life entering the world right after one left mine. I remember going with Natalie and Mom a few weeks ago to help pick out her wedding dress. That day felt okay. Fun, even. But Mother’s Day was heavy. It felt like a day I was supposed to belong to, and somehow didn’t.
Toward the end of the day—after Natalie and Hans and the baby left—I told my parents about Isaac’s orchestra concert. My dad asked, and I tried to answer honestly. I told them how it had been hard. How sitting in that auditorium again—after watching Ian’s film play there the year before—brought everything back.
I told them how strange it was to hold both things: pride and pain. Joy for Isaac. Grief for Ian. That it’s important to me not to push the grief down. That I want to feel it. I want to honor it. Because pretending it isn’t there doesn’t make it go away. And it doesn’t help the people I love.
My mom rubbed my back and nodded. She understood. At least a little.
My dad said something like, “Well, you have to manage it. The main thing is to deal with it in a reasonable way.”
And I get it. I do. But I also felt something inside me go quiet. Not in agreement. More like resignation. Because I knew in that moment—deep down—he doesn’t understand.
Grief isn’t something you manage like a schedule. It’s not a leak you patch or a fire you contain. It’s a tide. Sometimes gentle, sometimes devastating. And if you’re lucky, you learn to float inside it without going under.
That’s what Mother’s Day felt like. Floating.
Not sinking. Not thriving.
Just… being. Holding space for what is. For what was. For what is missing.I didn’t wear a smile the whole time. I didn’t fall apart either.
I just carried my invisible bowl. And I didn’t let it drop.
