Letter Three — For the Daughter Missing Her Mother

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

Hello family and friends,

How are you doing on this beautiful Wednesday evening. Thank you for being here with me tonight as we move into day 3 of our 7‑part Mother’s Day series. Having you here means more than you know.

Tonight, we’re shifting gears a little. Tonight is for those of you who have lost your mother — those who carry an extra‑tender, quiet ache in your heart during this time of year.

I never celebrated Mother’s Day with my own mom. The cult I was raised in didn’t allow such celebrations, so I don’t know what it truly feels like to honor my mother in that way. And sadly, since I left the church, she hasn’t spoken to me. Maybe that’s part of why I hold my sons so close. Just having them come for visits makes my heart skip a beat. I love our long phone conversations and the occasional text. Maybe that’s why this year, I just want a super casual Mother’s Day at home — no crowds, just family time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Even though I don’t understand the loss of a mother who has passed, I do understand what it feels like to lose a mom.

There are certain kinds of missing that never soften into something easy. There are absences that stay shaped like a person — shaped like her laugh, her hands, her way of knowing you without you ever having to explain a thing. Those are the precious details of a mother and her child. I can only imagine how deep and sacred those bonds are between a mother and daughter.

If you are moving through this Mother’s Day with a hollow place where her voice used to be, I want you to know something gently and 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.

And maybe that’s why today — and the days leading up to Mother’s Day — feel tender in a way you can’t quite name. Maybe you woke up with her on your mind. Maybe you felt her in the way the light came through the window. Maybe you found yourself reaching for a recipe, a phrase, a memory — something that still carries her fingerprints.

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 speak softly to someone who needs comfort. She lives in the way you straighten a blanket, or stir a pot, or pause before giving advice. She lives in the way you love — fiercely, imperfectly, wholeheartedly.

And if today hurts, it’s only 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 be grateful for the way you carry her forward. She would recognize herself in your strength, your tenderness, your resilience.

You are her living echo.

So, my dear friends, there is no right or wrong way to feel during a season when mothers are celebrated. It’s okay to keep celebrating your mom. It’s okay to continue the traditions you had with her. It’s okay to create new ones. Whatever you choose — it’s okay.

And remember this: your mom walked in your shoes. She, too, most likely had to say goodbye to her own mother. She carried her loss in the way she needed to. You get to do the same.

Whatever you do this Mother’s Day, I hope it brings you comfort knowing she would be proud of the person you have become. You came from her. You were raised by her. You are a part of her. She lives on in you.

Thank you for being here.

Until next time, don’t forget: Love Life++ Hugs,

Dawna — may the butterflies remind you that we are all still becoming

P.S. Tomorrow’s letter will be for the mother who feels unseen — the one who gives and gives, quietly, without applause.