I know it’s a Hallmark holiday. Mothers should be honored every damn day for all that they do and all that they are. But there is something about Mother’s Day. This day matters to me, somehow. It has always mattered to me.

Mother’s Day is simultaneously a holiday of mourning and celebration for me. I celebrated myself today, and was celebrated by my family. Hani took us out for brunch. He told me that I was a great mom, and how I need to hear that, because how often I doubt myself as a mother. I never doubt my love for Sami, but I doubt my ability to be a good mother to him. (There is no real evidence to support this, but I think the failed breast-feeding has something to do with it. But I digress.)

Today, on my first Mother’s Day as a mother, I mourned the loss of my own mother. When I think of her, there is an ache in the middle of my chest, a hollowness that won’t go away. It’s always there, but the pain is particularly acute on Mother’s Day. I want to call her and wish her a happy Mother’s Day. I want to tell her what Sami is doing, share his latest milestones, let him babble into the phone for her to hear.

Instead, I called my two living grandmothers and wished them happy Mother’s Day. I sent them flowers. I honored them in my own way, and felt good about doing that.

Today and always, I now feel myself part of a string of mothers who birth their children and find that the capacity of their hearts to love has been expanded wider than they ever imagined. Now, somehow, I am more connected to my own mother than ever before. Mother’s Day hurts, it still hurts, it still sucks, but it is tempered by a joy that is now a permanent feature in the landscape of my heart.

Happy Mother’s Day, mama, wherever you are.