For the Hearts That Hurt a Little More in May

     Mother’s Day holds joy for some, and ache for others. For many, it holds both. This is for the ones who carry the ache – the mothers, daughters, aunties, sisters, and women whose stories don’t fit neatly into a greeting card. 

     I wasn’t sure how to write this. When I felt that gentle nudge from God to begin, I hesitated. This day touches tender places in me too. But perhaps that’s why I needed to write it – because so many of us carry stories that sit quietly beneath the surface of May.

So if your heart hurts a little more this month, this space is for you. 

     Some of us carry the ache of miscarriage – a grief that arrives fiercely and then settles into a place inside you that never fully goes away, even when life moves on around you. Miscarriage reshapes a woman in ways that are hard to explain. It is the ache of love interrupted, the longing for a child you carried in hope, even if only for a short time. It is the empty space that no one else sees, but you feel every day. Mother’s Day can stir that tenderness in unexpected ways, reopening wounds you thought had softened. If this is part of your story, your motherhood is real, your love is real, and your grief is real. 

     Some carry the ache of abortion grief – a sorrow often held in silence. Sometimes it sits there because you feel it deep within, yet you’re not sure you’re allowed to grieve. You may carry regret, or a heaviness toward your younger self, or a longing that has no name. You may feel it most sharply in May, when the world celebrates a version of motherhood that feels out of reach. If this is you, this space holds tenderness for your story, and honours the honesty it takes to acknowledge what your heart still carries. 

     Some have buried a child – and there are no words that can soften that sorrow. Whether it was months ago or decades ago, the absence remains. A mother never stops loving her child. You carry memories, moments, and milestones that will never come. You carry love that has nowhere to land. You carry a grief that is sacred. If this is your story, I honour your courage to keep breathing, and the way you continue to love in the space where your child should still be. 

     Some long for motherhood – waiting, hoping, wondering. Perhaps you’ve prayed for years. Perhaps you’ve watched others step into motherhood while your own arms remain empty. Or perhaps you are already a mother, yet still longing for the child you hoped would join your family. Longing can be its own kind of grief, especially in May. You may feel left behind, overlooked, or unsure how to hold hope without breaking your own heart. If this is you, your longing is not small. Your sorrow is not invisible. Your worth is not measured by whether motherhood has come easily, or at all. 

     There are mothers who carry the weight of children who feel far away. Distance isn’t always measured in kilometres. Sometimes it’s emotional, relational, or a season you never expected. You may carry regret or hindsight – the ache of needs that went unmet, held within the gap between what you knew then and what you understand now. You may carry the longing for connection, for understanding, for healing. If this is you, your love is not diminished by the distance. Your heart tells a story that is tender and true, and part of its pain is that there is no clear ending, no easy closure – only the hope that something might yet be restored. 

     Some daughters carry complicated stories with their mothers. Mother’s Day can stir up guilt, confusion, sadness, or longing. Perhaps your childhood was painful. Perhaps your mother was unsafe, unavailable, or unpredictable. Perhaps you wish things had been different. Perhaps you grieve the mother you needed but didn’t receive. If this is you, you are allowed to hold your truth gently. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to force gratitude where there is pain. Your story matters. 

     Some women mother in ways that aren’t biological. There are so many ways to love. You may be an aunty, a foster mother, a stepmother, a mentor, a neighbour, a friend. You may be the one who listens, who steadies, who shows up, who remembers. You may be the one who pours out love quietly, faithfully, without recognition. 

     And then there are the women who find themselves loving children through the absence of the mother they also miss. The aunties and sisters who never expected to step into that space, but do so quietly, out of love. They aren't trying to replace anyone, or to fill a role that can’t be filled, they simply stay because love asks them to. There is a grief in that, and a beauty too.

     Some women carry the quiet sorrow of having lost their mother or grandmother. Mother’s Day can stir memories that feel both gentle and piercing – the longing for her voice, her presence, her calm, or even the chance to make peace with what was complicated. You may find yourself reaching for someone who is no longer here, or wishing you could share moments she will never see. If this is you, your grief is not a sign of weakness. It is the shape of love that continues, even in her absence. 

     Some mothers carry the quiet ache of raising children with additional needs – needs that are often misunderstood by others. You may face judgement from people who don’t see the whole picture. You may carry exhaustion that others mistake for weakness. You may grieve the milestones your child may never reach, even as you fiercely love the child you have. You may spend your days advocating, adjusting, and giving more of yourself than anyone realises. If this is you, your love is extraordinary, and your heart deserves rest and compassion.

     And then there are the women who sit quietly in the pews – unsure where they fit, carrying stories too heavy to name. You may dread the moment when mothers are asked to stand. You may feel invisible, overlooked, or unsure how to hold your own story in a room full of celebration. If this is you, you are not overlooked by God. And you are not overlooked here.

     Sometimes love looks like remembering someone’s story long after everyone else has moved on. Sometimes it looks like a message that simply says, ‘I’m thinking of you today.’ Sometimes it looks like sitting beside someone without trying to fix anything. Sometimes it looks like staying – not because it’s easy, but because love is faithful.

     If your heart hurts a little more in May, you don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to fit the picture the world paints of Mother’s Day. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. There is room for your joy. There is room for your hurting. There is room for your story – exactly as it is. 

     Dear Lord God, 

     For every woman whose heart feels tender this May, I ask for Your nearness. Meet her in the places that feel heavy or hidden. Hold the stories she carries – the ones spoken and the ones she keeps quietly within herself. Fill the empty spaces with Your gentleness. Strengthen her where she feels unsure. Surround her with a love that does not run dry. And remind her, in ways only You can, that she is seen, she is valued, and she is deeply loved. 

     In Jesus name, 

     Amen.

About the Author 

Heide is a wife and mother, author and poet, whose writing explores faith, grief, and the tender ways God meets us in the real places of life. She seeks to honour the stories people carry, give language to the aches that often stay unspoken, and offer hope to those walking through seasons of waiting or loss. Her desire is that each reader would sense God’s nearness and find room to breathe, even when life feels heavy. 

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