Why Mother’s Day Doesn’t Feel Like a Gift

This might ruffle a few feathers. I also hope it makes more than a few women feel deeply seen.

I have three children, one mother, and one mother-in-law. And while I manage that equation pretty well on the other 360 days of the year—the ones that aren’t wrapped up in holidays and expectations—Mother’s Day never lands the way it’s supposed to. In fact, after more than two decades of motherhood, I can say this plainly: I don’t look forward to Mother’s Day. Rather, I brace for it.

Which raises a question I come back to every year: if you are a mother, who is Mother’s Day actually for? Is it about being celebrated, or about celebrating the mothers who came before you? And more importantly, is it actually possible to do both well? In my experience, the answer is no.

Every version of the day asks something of me. If I spend it the way someone else wants, I feel resentful and depleted. If I choose what I want—quiet, solitude, space—I feel selfish, or at least I believe I’m perceived that way. And so, I end up in the same place, year after year: managing expectations instead of experiencing the day.

The dynamic is complicated. I want peace and time alone. My mother wants something quiet and meaningful—time together. My mother-in-law prefers tradition: church, brunch, the full expression of the day. None of these are wrong, but they are not the same. And Mother’s Day, as it’s currently constructed, seems to assume they should be.

For a while, I tried to solve it logically. We rotated who chose the day each year—fair, predictable, equitable. But “fair” still meant that two out of three people were sacrificing, and something about that started to feel off.

Because underneath all of it is a quieter, more uncomfortable truth: Mother’s Day doesn’t actually give mothers permission to center themselves. It just reshuffles who they are responsible for.

And then there’s the matter of gifts. I know they’re well-intended—thoughtful, even—but the truth is, I don’t want anything. The gifts already exist. They are my children—the simple, staggering fact that I have them, that they are here, that they are healthy and finding their way in the world. That is not something any person could have given me; that is a gift I attribute to God. And the appreciation I feel for that doesn’t ask to be performed. It doesn’t want a brunch reservation or a wrapped box. It wants quiet. It wants space. It wants to be held, just for a moment, by me.

Even the idea of being treated like a “queen” for the day doesn’t quite land. I don’t want to be managed, praised, or scheduled. What I want is simpler—and somehow harder to claim: I want to feel at peace. And for me, that often looks like being alone. Not because I don’t love my family, but because the things I hold most sacred—reflection, gratitude, even joy—I experience privately.

I realize that’s not true for everyone. Many people genuinely want togetherness. But that difference is exactly the problem. Mother’s Day assumes a shared definition of celebration, and most families don’t actually have one. So we push, we compromise, we concede—and someone inevitably walks away feeling unseen.

Maybe the answer isn’t finding the perfect plan. Maybe it’s admitting that the structure itself is flawed—that a single day cannot hold all of these roles: daughter, mother, daughter-in-law, giver and receiver, all at once.

And maybe the real question becomes: what would it look like if mothers were allowed to choose, without guilt, what they need from the day?

I don’t have a perfect answer. I’m not sure one exists. But this year, I might try something different. Not perfect. Not equitable. Just honest.

Hugs!