I don’t get precious over Mother’s Day things. This time of year I’m too exhausted to care. You also start to realize that for as much as motherhood has shaped and completely upended your life, there are other women in the world who are still alive and gave a strong majority of their years and energy to make sure you turned out to be a halfway decent person who had food, toilet paper, and clean clothes on most days.

For a much as I’ve learned about not having to strive to earn anybody’s approval, I can still get so offended and fall into the trap of wanting it badly. I don’t even need the celebration or praise, just don’t be mean or say something that hurts me. Back then my life and sacrifice felt so unseen. It’s not my life so much now, it’s my need and intentions. Most days I don’t blame them. I’m older, less active. I’m not the same person.

I didn’t think it’d be possible to feel any more invisible than I did in those days, but every so often I still deeply do. And that still isn’t even where the pain is from now. I don’t need to be seen. Or understood. Or admired. To stop hurting would be nice but who has control over that? There’s enough joy in my days that it needn’t depend on this one. I don’t know what I need now. I think I need it to be okay that I’m less.