I was 25 when I lost my mum, Eleanor. I’d met my now-husband young, and we were engaged by 23, due to be married in November 2017. After many years battling a terminal illness called amyloidosis – a rare condition where abnormal proteins build up in the organs and tissues – a sudden decline in my mum’s health meant that, two weeks before my planned wedding date and one day before mum’s 50th birthday, I was planning a funeral instead. It was tragic; a real ‘you couldn’t write this’ moment. My heart was broken.
My mum was a young mum. She had my brother at 19, then my twin sister, Christina, and I at 23. We were best friends. Even though we knew she was ill and her heart was failing, mum didn’t want to give up, and we thought we had more time. The day before she passed, we were ordering the shoes she was going to walk me down the aisle in. The day she took her last breath, she took a piece of me with her. I went from an outgoing, sociable, full-of-life bride-to-be, to just…numb. Now, Christina and I joke that because our mum always had to be fair, and because she knew she wouldn’t make it to Christina’s wedding the following September, she couldn’t possibly be at mine, either.
Fast forward two years – including our postponed wedding and a lot of healing – my husband and I couldn’t wait to grow our family. After the trauma of our newlywed journey, we naively thought our entrance into parenthood would be smooth at least. But we were wrong.
3 years of infertility repeatedly highlighted the gaping hole left by losing my mother. After various surgeries, multiple losses and a lot more anxiety, we welcomed our son, Andreas, in 2024. He’s an angel. We named him after my father-in-law, who also sadly passed away in 2021, and I saw the joy it brought back into my family-in-law's lives; hearing their dad’s name used for new life made everyone feel lighter. I wanted that desperately.
So, when we conceived in 2025, I (not so secretly) wished for a girl. In the unusually mild winter, just before Christmas, Eleanor Eirini was born, Eirini meaning ‘peace’ in our home language Greek – something I hadn’t felt since I lost my mum all the way back in 2017. Andreas healed some of the cracks in my heart, and Eleanor brought peace.
I’ve found that raising children while navigating grief has presented a complex, and often turbulent, reality. I’m proud of the family I’m building, but I still yearn for the life I imagined – the one where my mum was here to see the first days of school, the late-night fevers, the birthdays, the tiny triumphs. Those “I wish she could see this” moments reopen a grief I thought I’d already worked through.
They also bring up emotions I never associated with the mother I hoped I’d be: envy, resentment, jealousy: envy that other people can’t meet up because ‘their mum is coming to visit’; resentment when they complain about their mum leaving their children’s 5th birthday party early because it was too noisy (at least she was there); and jealousy that I’ll never get to hear my children scream ‘Yiayia!’ as she walks through the door. It’s not pretty, but it’s real.
It is estimated that 1 in 3 mothers are motherless in the UK. For women who are mothering without their own mum – whether through loss, estrangement, illness, or absence – Mother’s Day (and everyday) can be pretty triggering. It’s a reminder that you don’t have a traditional ‘village’; that you can’t just pick up the phone and ask your mum, but all you want is your mum. And Mother’s Day, in particular, can feel like a spotlight on everything you’ve lost and everything you’re trying to build.
I’ve been on this journey for 8 years, but luckily I have been navigating it with Christina, who also became a mother in 2021, welcoming her first son George, and second son Eli in 2022. Over the years, we’ve come up with these grounded tips on navigating Mother's Day (and every day) as motherless mothers.
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It’s about the village you make
It can be easy to feel like you are doing motherhood alone, especially as every other reel is telling you the secret to surviving life with a baby is ‘a nanny’ (cue the eye rolls). But your village is what you make it; it may not look ‘traditional’, but it’s powerful. Your sisters, cousins, neighbours or NCT friends can quickly become your co-parents, your emotional support and your cheerleaders.
You’ll never be able to replace your mother, but expanding your village gives you a support system which can be energising and comforting. So this Mother’s Day, I’m going to focus on celebrating the amazing women who make up my ‘village’: the friends I made through pregnancy who got me through the first year of motherhood with late-night WhatsApps while we were both up feeding; my sister who is truly my co-parent and my children’s second mum; my 23-year-old niece who calls everyday to speak to her godson; all of my children's godmothers who show up for them like they’re their own.
Build new traditions grounded in your nostalgia
Mother’s Day can be triggering because you remember exactly what you’re missing: brunches, shopping trips, long phone calls. So instead of trying to recreate what can’t be recreated, build new traditions that honour what you loved.
My mum baked the most incredible cakes – never perfect, always delicious. I’m not a natural baker, but on days like this, I get in the kitchen with my own little family. The cakes are fine, but the stories, the laughter, the memories we make while reminiscing slowly soften the ache. Nostalgia becomes warmth and replaces pain.
Talk openly about your motherhood journey
Social media can feel brutal on Mother’s Day. The tributes, the reels, the “couldn’t have survived without her” captions – they can make you feel like your experience is something to hide.
But sharing your truth is connective, your story matters and telling it helps you own it! Use Mother’s Day to spark conversation; offer a shoulder for other motherless mothers to cry and connect on; let others know they aren’t alone if Mother’s Day feels dark and heavy. I found this especially true for mums out there who aren’t holding their babies in their arms, but in their hearts. Following the loss of my first two pregnancies, I quietly ‘celebrated’ Mother’s Day with my husband, and said a silent wish every year that next year would be the one we were holding our baby. Those years were tough, but he would buy me a card from the dog, and though it felt silly, it got me through. I also started sharing my story at work, and started the Fertility and Baby Loss DE&I network with another colleague, who is now a close friend and a big part of my village.
Christina and I have also recently launched an Instagram community, @thevillagewemake_, to share our mothering journey without the traditional ‘village’, to help connect with other mums going through the same.
Acknowledge the strength you’ve built
Because we might lack that reassuring voice that we are doing a great job, motherless mothers tend to underestimate themselves. Today, and everyday, take a moment to recognise what you’ve built. You’ve learnt to hold your child’s emotions while managing your own, you’ve built a family without daily guidance, you’ve shown resilience when you were probably running on very little sleep.
So whilst other mums have the privilege of a ‘day off’ because their kids are on a ‘stay-cation’ at grandma’s, know that the days feel long but the years are short and one day, they won’t want to hold your hand or cuddle you when they cry and you’ll definitely miss it more than you think.
Opt out if you need to
There is no need to always be the strong one, and just because it’s Mother’s Day doesn’t mean you have to fake a smile and ‘celebrate’. Before I had my children, it was easier to opt out and just let the day pass. But once you have your family, all of a sudden it feels like you need to enjoy being showered and celebrated.
The cuddles, the kisses, the ‘I love you’s aren’t limited to this one day, and they shouldn’t be amplified if it doesn’t feel right for you. If today feels too loud, too heavy, too complicated, it’s okay to let it pass like any other of the 364 days this year. Stick to your usual routine. No need to fight for a reservation at an overcrowded pub to sit amongst multi-generation tables eating off a set menu. Stay at home, and take a slow morning walk with your littles instead. Remember: we’ve got this.
Follow Georgia and Christina's story at @thevillagewemake_.
