We Left

There's something quietly complicated about Mother's Day once you're deep in the trenches of motherhood. Not the early, dreamy version of the handprint crafts and tiny hands giving you tiny bouquets… but the years when everyone is trying so hard to make you feel appreciated while you're running on empty.

After one too many breakfasts in bed ending in maple syrup on my expensive duvet, tears over whose card I opened first, and the familiar guilt of not appreciating the moment enough, I decided I was over traditional Mother's Day celebrations. Not over the kiddos, or the crafts, but over the grind of it all.

I remember standing in my laundry room, shoving the entire duvet into the washing machine while feeling like the worst mother in the world because I wasn't basking in the "Adorable" chaos. Everyone was trying to show me how much they love me, and somehow I still felt overstimulated, exhausted, and guilty for wanting what I actually wanted: to bed rot in a dark room with no one touching me, yelling potty words or asking me to get up from my seat to accompany them three feet down the hallway.

My husband, to his credit, saw this coming before I did. One year he booked me a staycation at one of my favorite hotels downtown… A beautiful room, crisp sheets, total peace. But instead of relaxing, I spent most of the time feeling anxious about being away and trying to minimize the disruption my absence created at home. I had gotten very good at making myself small. My needs, my wants, my rest—it was all negotiable.

Enter the mom group.

A collection of women I love like sisters, all of us quietly carrying similar feelings but rarely saying them out loud. Somewhere in the depths of our group chat, we admitted what many mothers secretly know: sometimes what restores us most is being with people who understand the invisible load without needing it explained.

So we did something radical by mom standards. We left.

Our inaugural Mother's Day trip was to Las Vegas to see Dead & Company at the Sphere. The generic group chat was renamed "Grateful Moms" and our small club of misfit moms was born. Our trip to Las Vegas was incredibly restorative. We slept. We laughed. We stayed out late. No one asked us where the Band-Aids were. No one needed to go to the bathroom immediately after we sat down at the dinner table. It was heavenly. And perhaps most importantly, we celebrated one another in the way only other mothers really can.

As I write this, I'm sitting in an airport lounge waiting to board a flight for our second annual Mother's Day trip — this time to Casa de Campo. The group chat has since evolved into "Casa de MOMPO," which is in keeping (I had koozies made for the occasion). We've been looking forward to this escape for months, because motherhood is easier to carry when you occasionally set it down for a moment and let yourself simply exist.

I still struggle with the guilt sometimes. This year I'll miss the Mother's Day celebration at school, and there's always a small ache that comes with that. But I'm finally learning that being a good mother and being honest about what restores you are not mutually exclusive things.

Maybe that's the real gift of motherhood as you grow into it: understanding that feeling seen matters too. Not just appreciated in the performative sense, but deeply understood. And sometimes the people best equipped to do that are the women sitting beside you in the airport lounge or singing with you at a concert… equally tired, equally grateful, and equally ready for a couple of uninterrupted nights of sleep.

Happy Mother's Day to all who celebrate! Keep kicking ass and lifting each other up!

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