Last weekend was Mother’s Day and I loved it. I have no reason to dislike Mother’s Day. It isn’t a hard day for me, I have a fairly good relationship with my own mother, I didn’t suffer through infertility, and I haven’t lost any children. I know Mother’s Day can be a really difficult day for many and my heart goes out to those who struggle. Yet, I am not one of them and so have no reason to dislike the day. 

Yet, for years my opinion of Mother’s Day was just…okay. It’s an okay day and I felt selfish in thinking so. I never expected expensive gifts or big pronouncements and I was happily content with what my family gave me. “It’s so nice!” I’d say, or “That was lovely.” And it was. I was being honest. Every Mother’s Day was lovely, nice, and good, but each year I would inwardly sigh with relief when it was all over. 

There seemed no reason for it. What in the world did I have to complain about? My expectations weren’t grand and things always went according to plan. Growing up, my own mother never seemed completely happy with Mother’s Day, either, so perhaps I picked something up from her. I was like my mom—calling everything lovely or nice and always grateful for the homemade cards and breakfast in bed. Maybe that’s just how Mother’s Day is, I thought, a nice day that passes with a bit of relief.

It was easy to brush aside this dissatisfaction as something unreasonable, so that’s exactly what I did. It was Mother’s Day! I’m a mother and if I’m not happy with it it’s because I’m selfish. What more could I possible need or expect?

Then one Mother’s Day it all changed for me. I was laying in bed, thinking about the day and feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. I went through the day’s activities, picking out the things I was looking forward to: the homemade gifts, the breakfast and dishes I won’t have to do, and the neatly wrapped set of candles I had pointed out to my husband that I wanted. Yet, I stopped when it came to imagining what followed. After the gifts and breakfast came church, three hours of it and all the exhaustion that comes after. 

 I didn’t want to go to church. I didn’t want to sit through the youth talk who doles out parenting advice with little to no experience with children. Bonus points if they’re from a family where I vehemently disagree with their parenting style. 

I didn’t want to sit through the talk done by Elder’s Quorum President, where his praises for his mother and wife are endless and overblown. Not that these women wouldn’t deserve praise, but so much of it rises to the level of unbelievability. 

I didn’t want to sit through the last talk, always given by a woman who clearly has a complicated relationship with the day. Either her relationship with her mother is such that she skirts the subject or struggles with her worth as a mother because for whatever reason she is unmarried or childless. The tears she holds back will be evident as she tries to get through the day’s crushing disappointments.

I didn’t want to sit through lessons meant to praise motherhood that left me feeling inadequate in my own mothering. I didn’t want to hear about apostle’s wives with their unwavering patience and perfection that I could never measure up to. 

I didn’t want to feel guilty over being a mother when so many suffer over not being one. I can acknowledge their struggle, but with so many emotions flying around those three hours, how can I not feel like I’m shoving my happiness in their face? 

Those three hours of the day left me feeling exhausted and worn out, like sponge being rung to tight. I didn’t want to go to church for Mother’s Day, I wanted to enjoy the day!

I turned to my husband. “Can we go to the beach today?” It was the first place I could think of that wasn’t church. If we went to the beach, we’d be gone all day. I didn’t wait for his answer, I just kept going. “We can pack a lunch, grab a few extra clothes. It’s only a hour or so away and the kids would love it. I know it’s a bit cold, but we could go anyway. Wouldn’t it be nice? We should do it.”

He looked at me, a bit stunned, then sort of shrugged. “Yeah, okay. It’s your day.”

So, that’s what we did. We packed a hasty picnic lunch, threw our beach gear in the car, and head out. As we pulled out of the house, I felt excited, but I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t choosing how to spend the day, I was actually running away from Mother’s Day. 

It was too cold and windy for the beach. Sand got in our food and we shivered way too much. We collected shells, built sand castles, and ran up and down the surf while screaming when the ice cold water touched our toes. I loved every moment of it.

By the time we piled into the car, I felt refreshed. Watching the waves, feeling the breeze, and breathing in the salty air felt healing. I couldn’t describe why, it just did, like giving me something I’d hungered for but didn’t know until I held it in my hands. I ran away from Mother’s Day and felt amazing for it.

We got home in time to throw a frozen pizza into the oven and spent the rest of the night on the couch. “Did you like your Mother’s Day?” My husband asked.

“Yes! I loved it! That was the best Mother’s Day I’ve ever had!”

The next year, I was preemptive. I made plans for Mother’s Day weeks in advance, again asking myself what I really wanted and following through. We went to a national park for a small family hike and again I loved the day.

This was year was different because of the pandemic, but in so many ways it was the same. Church hasn’t been an option since I “ran away” those two years ago and again, all I had to do was ask what I wanted.

I wanted Starbucks and a pedicure. That’s it. That’s all I wanted. 

I couldn’t get a pedicure, but I did one at home. I was able to take the morning to myself so I could sit in a too-long drive-thru line for an iced mocha. Then I parked my car at a park to spend my time writing. I wrote enough to finish my biggest, longest project—a novel. That was my Mother’s Day gift to me.

Every year I have been in the process of “taking back” Mother’s Day. Two years ago I was running away, the next year I staked claim to it, this year I relaxed into the day. Every year I asked myself what I wanted and listened. I followed through with whatever the voice asked of me—the beach, the national park, an iced mocha, writing time. Those were the things that defined who I was and what was important to me at that exact moment, and that’s how it should be. 

Mother’s Day is no longer about the ritual of the day. It’s now about who I am and I have a plethora of words that describe me. “Mother” is just one that gets tossed in with writer, wife, daughter, sister, kind, smart, determined, anxious, and loving. I am all of those things, one not being more important than the other. My children come first in many aspects of my life, but the label of “mother” does not. I’m a mother, but almost many other things.

This Mother’s Day I sent a friend a “Happy Mother’s Day” text and she responded with “Happy Divine Feminine Day.” How fitting. Devine Feminine encompasses how Mother’s Day has changed for me. It’s more about who I am and who I am becoming, without elevating one role above the others. It’s an acknowledgement of the many different parts of me that make me whole.

This year, Mother’s Day felt like it belonged to me, but not because I’m a mother with homemade cards and sticky kisses. Those things symbolize the start of it, but everything that follows feels deeper and more sacred. I am who I am and I can fully rejoice in it.

So, Happy Divine Feminine Day to all who need it. Next year, I hope everyone takes the day for themselves, however it is needed.