For the first time in years, Mother’s Day felt like a celebration

Handprint art. Construction paper flowers. Homemade cards. Acrostic poems spelling out M-O-M. These are the images that come to mind when I think of Mother’s Day.

For many years, my oldest daughter, Cammy, proudly gave me these treasures. Because she had Rett syndrome, Cammy was never able to create them independently, even as a teenager. Her hands and body didn’t cooperate the way she wanted them to, so my husband would help her make cards and gifts for me. Yet Cammy beamed with the same pride as any child presenting a handmade masterpiece.

I still have every one of those gifts.

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Since Cammy passed away in December 2023, those cards and crafts have become some of my most cherished possessions. They are tangible reminders of her love, her determination, and the joy she found in giving. Mother’s Day has felt very different in recent years.

My mother died in 2018. Cammy died five years later. Two of the most important people in my life are gone far too soon. Their absence has left an enormous void, making it difficult to embrace a day meant to celebrate motherhood.

On Mother’s Day, I grieve from two perspectives: as a daughter missing her mother, and as a mother missing her child.

A special place on Lake Michigan

Since my mom’s death, my siblings and I have honored her each Mother’s Day morning by gathering at Helen Doria Beach (formerly Columbia Beach) in Chicago. As a teenager, she lived just steps from the lakefront, and she often spoke of that stretch of shoreline as one of her happiest places. Now it has become one of ours.

We stand together by the water, sharing stories about our mother and laughing about memories from our childhood. For a little while, the ache in my heart softens.

Photo courtesy of Jackie Babiarz

Jackie Babiarz, left, and her siblings gather on Helen Doria Beach in Chicago on May 10, an annual Mother’s Day tradition. (Courtesy of Jacqueline Babiarz)

Then I return home, where another absence awaits me. I see our family of three, not four, and the grief returns. But my husband, Billy, and our younger daughter, Ryan, always do their best to help mend my heart.

This year, they gave me something I hadn’t felt on Mother’s Day in a long time: peace.

When I came home from the beach, I was greeted by a sparkling, bedazzled vase filled with flowers, heartfelt notes in my Mother’s Day journal, and photographs of both of my daughters. I cried, but this time they were both happy and sad tears.

Later, Ryan — who is currently logging hours for driver’s education — drove us to the movie theater. The film featured the music of Michael Jackson, an artist who holds a special place in my heart because his concert was the first one I ever attended — with my mom.

As the music played, I found myself smiling as I remembered my mother singing and dancing with us in our kitchen when we were kids.

After the movie, we picked up Chinese food and spent the evening watching the reality TV show “The Traitors,” debating what our strategies would be if we were contestants. It was an ordinary day in many ways, and perhaps that’s what made it extraordinary. For the first time in several years, Mother’s Day wasn’t defined by tears.

The grief is still there, of course, and it always will be. I will always miss my mom, and I will always miss Cammy. But this year, love was stronger than loss.

And for the first time in a long time, Mother’s Day felt like a celebration again.

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