To the motherless.
To the childless.
To the women standing in grocery store flower aisles pretending today does not sting a little.
I see you.
To the ones who mothered everyone else while learning how to survive themselves.
To the women who carry nurturing in their bones but never got the chance,
or lost the chance,
or chose differently and still ache in quiet moments when the world becomes one long commercial for “normal life.”
To the daughters who still reach for a phone that no longer answers.
Who still hear their mother’s voice in recipes, in perfume counters, in certain songs at red lights.
To the women who raised themselves.
Who became soft and loving anyway.
That is its own kind of miracle.
And to the women whose arms stayed empty while their hearts did not—
you are not less woman, less worthy, less whole because life unfolded differently than expected.
Love is not only proven through childbirth.
Some of the most maternal souls I have ever known give life through art, friendship, protection, humor, listening, rescuing, creating, surviving.
Some women become gardens.
Some become shelter.
Some become the voice they once needed.
Today can hold grief and beauty at the same time.
Bitterness and gratitude.
Loneliness and relief.
You do not have to force yourself into celebration to deserve tenderness.
So today, I hope you eat something comforting.
I hope you rest without guilt.
I hope you remember that your existence has nurtured people in ways you may never fully know.
And I hope, somewhere beneath all the complicated ache,
you understand this:
You were never invisible to women like me.
