Before Mother’s Day became a holiday of brunches, greeting cards, and flower deliveries, it was something much more tender. It began with a woman named Anna Jarvis, who wanted to honor her mother’s legacy—a woman who cared for wounded soldiers on both sides of the Civil War and worked tirelessly for peace.

Jarvis’s vision was simple: a day to express genuine gratitude, to write a heartfelt letter, to visit your mom and really see her. Not a commercial event. In fact, once the holiday became popular, she spent the rest of her life trying to reclaim it. When she saw white carnations (her mother’s favorite flower) being sold as Mother’s Day merchandise, she protested so passionately she was arrested. When a restaurant introduced a “Mother’s Day Salad,” she ordered one just to dump it on the floor.

(Though, to be fair, if she knew about massages and intentional gifts at The Dragontree, she might have made an exception. 😉)

In that spirit—of devotion, tenderness, and real connection—I want to offer a reflection on motherhood. On receiving the care you long for. And maybe even on setting your mother free.

I’m lucky to have a good relationship with my mom. But I know that’s not true for everyone. For many, the word “mother” stirs up complicated feelings—loss, longing, frustration, grief, or just a deep ache for something that never quite was.

The truth is, most mothers begin the job without training. There’s no class that teaches how to nurture while healing your own wounds. No certification in emotional presence or communication. No checklist that says: “you’re ready now.”

Some mothers enter parenthood still learning how to care for themselves. Some are in relationships that don’t feel safe. Some have trauma they’ve never had the chance to heal. And some simply never had a model for what it looks like to show up with consistency, love, and support.

If your mother managed to offer you even a few of those things—she might be doing better than you realized.

I was talking with someone recently about her difficult relationship with her mom. At one point she said, “I know I should stop expecting her to be different. She’s not going to change.” I’ve heard that same sentence, in one form or another, many times.

And I get it.

It’s so normal to want your mom to be more loving. To be proud of you. To really listen. To say, “I love you exactly as you are.” That longing isn’t selfish. It’s human.

These are the qualities of the archetypal Mother—the kind who wraps you up in unconditional love and makes the world feel safe. Everyone longs for that.

(And if your mother really did offer you that kind of love, pause and let yourself feel grateful. Even if she’s no longer here, her care may still live inside you—and it’s never too late to deepen the healing that started in her arms.)

But not every mother can offer that. Some are too caught in their own pain. Some never received mothering themselves. Some are still learning how to be soft with themselves, let alone someone else.

If your mother couldn’t give you what you needed, you really have two choices. One is to hold onto blame. The other is to see her clearly and offer her forgiveness.

You might be thinking, “Wait a second—this is supposed to be about her being a better mother to me, and now it sounds like I’m the one doing the work?” Yes. Because while we often grow up thinking of the parent-child relationship as one-directional, it’s more complicated than that. I believe it's possible that you and your mother came into each other’s lives not just so she could raise you—but so you could help free her, too.

That kind of shift starts inside. Let go—just for a moment—of the idea of who your mother should be. Set aside the story of how it was supposed to go. See if you can open your awareness to who she actually is.

And if resistance comes up, let yourself feel it. Notice where it lands in your body. Breathe through it. Keep your heart open. Try to hold her image gently, without judgment. Forgive her—not because it erases what happened, but because it frees you from carrying the weight of it.

And if you reach a moment of peace—even a flicker of it—write about it. Let your body remember what that feels like.

Now, if your mother was truly harmful or abusive, I’m not saying you have to be in contact with her. You don’t have to like her. You don’t have to put yourself at risk. What I want—for both of you—is freedom. The freedom for her to be who she is, and the freedom for you to be exactly who you are. That freedom doesn’t mean never speaking up or setting boundaries. But it does mean acknowledging that she gets to decide how she responds.

It gets easier to offer that kind of freedom when we expand our understanding of what “mothering” really is.

Your mother gave you life and likely cared for your basic needs. But she may not have helped you navigate the transition from needing her to knowing how to care for yourself. She may not have known how to do that. She may have feared that your independence meant losing you. But that’s the real arc of healthy mothering—moving from direct nurturing, to teaching you how to find it for yourself.

And here’s the good news: you can still receive mothering.

Compassionate touch is one of the ways we reconnect with that feeling of being nurtured—of being safe, seen, and supported. But it doesn’t have to come through touch alone. It can look like:

Feeding yourself with love—or letting someone feed you.
Spending time with the earth—bare feet in the soil, feeling connected to something ancient and steady.
Taking a warm bath with intention—or letting someone else care for you in this way.
Being deeply listened to by someone who loves you.
Singing to yourself, or letting someone sing to you.

These small acts are not small. They are portals to healing.

So here’s your invitation: this week, try one of these acts of mothering. Choose something that helps you feel cared for, and let yourself fully receive it. Let it land.

When you learn what it feels like to be mothered in ways that aren’t tied to your biological mother, something opens up. The pressure on her softens. And in that space, there’s more freedom—for both of you.

Be well,
Peter