When my mum was alive, I remember running into her bedroom each Mother’s Day morning to give her a handmade card and a freshly picked flower. She loved that, because she hated me spending money on her – given her big heart, she would always tell me to spend the money on myself instead. She was that kind of mum who would have nothing so that I could have everything.
My other memories of Mother’s Day, though, are just like my memories of any other day spent with my mum. I adored her so much, it wasn’t like I needed that one day to show her. And she showed me the same love every day too – which is why it hurts she’s no longer alive to comfort me for the Mother’s Day I’m about to experience.
You see, for me this Mother’s Day comes after a long year of questioning whether I am – or if I ever really was – a mother. Why? Well, this year, I won’t be able to spend that quality time with my daughter, because my daughter is no longer alive. In fact, I never got to spend any quality time with Consy – just the four weeks I spent by her side at the NICU in Great Ormond Street Hospital. At least I had 25 beautiful years with my mum.
I’ve struggled to find any positive in not even being able to hold my baby daughter this Mother’s Day. People always say “you’re still a mum, you always will be” but, in my eyes, I need her here or that to be true. I need her here with me, where she belongs.
You might ask why I don’t feel like a mum? Well, I never got to breastfeed Consy, instead I could only pump for days, with her taking it through a tube. I couldn’t even kiss Consy in fear I would transmit a cold. I couldn’t change her nappy or bath her – a nurse had to do that motherly routine for me. I never – never will – experience these things with her.
So now, the thought of Mother’s Day brings me nothing but heartache. Last year was my first Mother’s Day alone, but it was just months after Consy’s death and felt like such a whirlwind, I didn’t even acknowledge the day at all. I was so numb with pain, I can only remember being sat in my apartment staring into space.
In an ideal world you get pregnant, build a nest for your baby, prepare its welcome and give birth. You and the father are meant to live happily ever after and raise your child up. For me, it was the complete opposite. I didn’t seem to have any pure love in my life, that eternal everlasting kind of love we all crave for as humans.
Despite everything, I’m a huge believer in timing, and I have always believed that things – even the most hurtful of them – happen for a reason. In the moment, it’s too hard for us humans to understand, to process why pain and trauma comes our way. I want to tap into this feeling, though, this insecurity that has slowly grown within me of not feeling like a ‘real’ mum. This pain.
I now know I want to use it to help other mums who have gone through similar to know how to deal with our grief. I want to turn the worst thing that could happen to me into what could be a slight positive: helping others. This unlucky card I have been dealt can help others understand that life can, and will, get easier. I want to break the stigma of talking about baby loss, and help other mums not feel guilt or shame when it happens. I know first hand how lonely it was, and blamed everything on myself. In actual fact, it was all out of my own hands.
I would like you all to be more thoughtful on Mothers Day, for I know that it’s not all chocolates, roses and family meals. There are some that are alone, at home with nothing but their memories. We can’t expect everyone to be celebrating this day – please be mindful of others’ journeys and pasts. And that goes for those who may be having trouble conceiving, some may have lost their babies without meeting them, as well as those of us who had only a short while.
And if you’re a mum like me, going through Mother’s Day without their child, what I want you all to take away from this piece is that however hard this day may be, look at yourself in the mirror and applaud yourself. Applaud yourself for still being here, for still living, for still noticing life and its most beautiful bits in spite of all the hurt thrown your way.
I dream of my little one regularly. When I do, I see her face crystal clear, and I wake up smiling knowing she’s safe up there with my mum. I will forever carry Consy in my heart. I know grief doesn’t exactly get easier, but we just evolve with it, grow from it, and learn how to cope.
Be kind to yourself this Mother’s Day. And know that other mums like me are wishing you all our love and light too.
Malin Andersson is a motivational speaker, mental health advocate and body confidence activist. Follow her on Twitter at @MissMalinSara and on Instagram at @missmalinsara
Useful websites and helplines:
- Sands works to support anyone affected by the death of a baby.
- Tommy’s fund research into miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth, and provide pregnancy health information to parents.
- Saying Goodbye offers support for anyone who has suffered the loss of a baby during pregnancy, at birth or in infancy.