SM
Growing up in the UK, Mother’s Day was simply about my mum. It meant breakfast in bed, a card, and maybe some flowers—a gentle way of saying, "You’re important to me, and I love you."
When I became permanently childless in my 40s, primarily due to being single throughout my 30s, that simple image was still the concept I carried in my head.
Then I discovered the childless community and encountered a vast spectrum of perspectives. There were people who had experienced traumatic childhoods and needed to maintain a safe distance from their mothers, those who were completely estranged, and those who deeply adored their mothers, whether living or passed away. How we became childless, alongside our cultural backgrounds, fundamentally shaped how the day hit us and what we needed to get through it.
This reality became even clearer during a trip to the USA around Mother’s Day a few years ago. As the date approached, I watched the city transform. Storefront after storefront wished everyone a Happy Mother’s Day. Restaurants advertised special menus. Displays overflowed with flowers, balloons, and gifts. The celebration felt omnipresent—like Christmas on speed for mothers.
Then came the day itself, with strangers casually wishing me a "Happy Mother’s Day," simply assuming that every woman was a mother. Someone even turned to my husband with a wink and a laugh: "If not, you’ve got some work to do there!"
For me, the essential question became: What do I actually need on Mother’s Day?—along with recognizing that my relationship with the day is allowed to evolve over time.
I once took part in a gathering of childless individuals around Mother’s Day. It was a peer-to-peer event where most of us had met online six months prior and traveled to be together. However, boundary issues between two members led to a group rupture, leaving people to maintain only individual connections afterward.
I’ve also heard of Mother’s Day meet-ups that bring together women who have lost their mothers alongside childless individuals. I find that concept both beautiful and complex. It's beautiful that people can connect, yet it can feel like an impossible space for those in deep grief who struggle to hold space for someone else's loss—especially if they have strained relationships with their own mothers.
I have also attended non-Mother’s Day gatherings designed for childless or childfree individuals. In principle, a space for non-mothers sounds simpler. Yet the moment personal stories are shared and people navigate grief around their respective paths, it can become remarkably complex.
Then there are therapeutic retreats led by qualified professionals—small groups structured to explore grief, identity, self-celebration, and reclaiming the day. These are the spaces I personally crave and where I imagine the deepest healing happens.
Yet I am just one person, and my needs may differ from yours.
And that is the entire point. There isn’t one right way to spend Mother’s Day.
The real question is: What do you need, right now, in your life as it is?
● Maybe you want to be surrounded by people who truly understand.
● Maybe you want to avoid anything Mother’s Day-related entirely (perhaps hide under a blanket).
● Maybe you want to spend the day honoring your own mum.
● Maybe you need a dedicated therapeutic space.
● Maybe you just want brunch, laughter, and no emotional depth at all.
● Or maybe you simply want to treat it like any other Sunday.
You don’t have to default to what someone else thinks you should need. You get to choose what is right for you in this exact moment of your life.
Our experience of childlessness is as unique as a fingerprint. You do not need to people-please on this day, at Christmas, or during any other potentially triggering time of year. Figuring out your needs isn't selfish, it is essential to your healing.
My invitation to you is to sit quietly and ask yourself: What do I need right now? Don't force an answer. Let it rise naturally, seek support if you need it, and find a way to honor whatever that answer is. From personal experience I know this can feel really hard to do but it is so worth it, you are worth it, as am I. Love to you all
