The Day After Mother’s Day: When the Mind Won’t Let Go

A reflection on invisible grief, thought loops, and the weight of Hallmark® holidays

Why Mother’s Day Grief Also hits the Day After

They don’t sneak up on us. They announce themselves weeks ahead—through grocery store signs, social media smiles, and a quiet dread that builds in your chest. These days that are carved out on the calendar to remind us of what we no longer have—or maybe never did.

I call them Hallmark Bomb Days.

You know the ones: Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s, Birthdays, Family Days… Thanksgiving... the list is right there on your calendars. Every month. Like clockwork. Days when the world wants you to smile for the camera and raise a glass to “love” or “belonging"—as if those things are simple. As if they live in every home.

And while this piece centers Mother’s Day, it could just as easily speak to any day that reminds you of who or what is missing—Father’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, or even the ordinary moments that once carried meaning.

What Invisible Grief Looks Like

But what if your grief isn’t simple? What if it’s wrapped in estrangement, longing, infertility, distance, death, or decades of being unseen? What if the person you’re supposed to be celebrating is gone, or the person you were supposed to become… never arrived?

This is what invisible grief often looks like. It shows up in silence. In pretending. In emotional landmines we tiptoe around.

The Thought Loops of Grief

This Mother’s Day, my grief didn’t come wrapped in flowers or brunch invitations.
It arrived like it always does—quietly, invisibly, in my mind.

In the thoughts that loop.
The guilt.
The shame.
The ache of silence.

These are the thought loops of grief—relentless, repetitive, deeply human.

I didn’t post a smiling photo. I didn’t share a quote about motherhood.
Instead, I did what I’ve been learning to do in my own work—
I listened inward.

I noticed the story rising:

“Only terrible mothers get ignored on Mother’s Day.”
“See? You don’t deserve to be celebrated.”

The mind doesn’t say these things gently. It says them like fact. Like law.
And on days like this—when the world is shouting “Happy Mother’s Day!” from every corner of social media—it’s easy to believe those thoughts are true.

A Breath, A Pause, A Return to Truth

But then something else stirred.
A breath.
A pause.
A remembering.

Oh, hello, shame. I see you.
Hi guilt. You’re familiar.
And you… you must be grief.

Yes, I made mistakes as a mother.
No, I don’t deserve to punish myself for them every time someone else posts a happy family photo.

So on this Hallmark Bomb Day, here’s what I did:

I sat.
I cried.
I listened.
I named my emotions.
I invited the truth.

Not the truth others project onto me.
My truth.

That we are all just doing the best we can with the information we have at the time.
That love is complicated.
That absence doesn’t mean failure.
That hope still lives somewhere under the rubble.

Preparing for the Next “Bomb Day”

These "bomb days" don’t just destroy—they reveal.
They show us where the fissures are.
Where the longing lives.
Where the breath catches in our throat.

But they also offer us something golden:
A chance to remember that we matter.
Even if no one else says it aloud.

So if you’re reading this the day after a hard Mother’s Day, or any day when the world forgets to see your pain, I invite you to pause.
Listen to the parts of you that grieve what could have been.
Let them speak.
Let them be heard.

And if your mind has already leapt ahead—
to the next “bomb day” on the horizon,
the next birthday, anniversary, holiday, or milestone you wish you didn’t have to brace for—
you’re not alone in that either.

The ache doesn’t end when the flowers stop.
It shapeshifts.
It anticipates.
It counts down to the next heartbreak before your breath has even caught up.

But what if—between the bomb days—you practiced being kind to yourself?
What if you didn’t wait for the next rupture to offer yourself gentleness?

Because here’s the truth I’m learning:
Making mistakes doesn’t make you a monster.
It makes you human.

Yes, you may have hurt someone else.
But that doesn’t mean you are unworthy of care.
Others have made mistakes that hurt you, too—and likely, you still care for them.

And so the cycle continues… until someone dares to pause, to listen, and to heal.

A Soft Ritual for the Morning After

And then, tomorrow, when the world moves on…

Congratulate yourself. You did it! You got through it.

And then, if it feels right, place a hand on your heart and whisper to yourself:

“I’m doing my best.”
“I’m sorry for the ways I’ve let you down.”
“I’m here now. You are safe. You are loved.”

Even in the thought spirals.
Even in the silence.
Even on the days that feel invisible—
You matter.

And that, dear one, is more than enough.

🌬️ Want to go deeper?

This reflection was born from the themes inside my grief astrology course, specifically the Air module—which explores how grief lives in the mind and breath. If your thoughts are circling this week, if the world feels too loud or too far away, this might be a sacred place to begin.

[Learn more about the Air module here →] (coming soon!)