Becoming A Motherless Mother
Written By Abigail Rubando
You just want your Mom there.
“Something about giving birth—you just want your mom there,” my mom used to say almost every time we talked during my pregnancy. Then she would tell the story of when she had my brother, she was a couple of states away from her own mother and thought she’d be fine. But as soon as she got home from the hospital, her first request to my dad was to get her mom there ASAP.
I’d respond passively, unsure if she was nudging me to say, “Please be there.”
It was a conversation I had with my therapist many times: “I don’t think I want my mom at my birth. Is that wrong? Am I horrible?”
I was used to mothering my mom, tending to her emotions, and managing her needs. And I didn’t want that responsibility in the room when I gave birth. I wanted the space to be mine, free from worry. A space for just me, Audrey, and Mark.
I was open to being wrong. I told her, “It’ll be nice knowing you’re on standby. Mark knows his marching orders.”
But I never had to make that decision. Because two months before Audrey was born, my mom died suddenly.
I had already spent ten years grieving my mom. Not the physical loss, but the emotional one—the mom I wished I had. A mom I could count on. A mom who could just show up when and where I needed her to.
It was heartbreaking to always hold out hope. That she’d choose differently. That she’d change. That maybe a granddaughter would be the thing that reminded her that life was worth living.
Even with time and proof otherwise, I always held out some sliver of hope. I always looked for the bright side, despite my devastation. Despite the pain and hurt.
And then, just like that, it was gone. No more “maybe.” No more possibility. No more hoping. It was final.
On one hand, I didn’t have to feel guilty about not having her there. She couldn’t actively let me down. But on the other hand, she wasn’t wrong.
I did want my mom. I wanted to be mothered.
That thing she always said about birth, she was right. You become so acutely aware of the bond between mother and baby. The miracle of it. The rawness. The purity. And in that vulnerability, in the fatigue, the emotion, the constant giving, you just want someone to take care of you.
I wanted her there. And maybe, in some strange mercy, she spared me the heartbreak of her not being able to show up in the way I needed.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Birth, and beyond. Every new milestone brings a flash of hope: I can’t wait to send this to my mom.
And every time, the realization crashes down: I can’t.
The emotional whiplash. The highs and lows. The ‘what ifs.’ It’s exhausting.
And layered on top of postpartum? It’s a whirlwind.
I’ve been somewhere between survival mode, pure joy, and walking zombie.
Many people understand postpartum. Fewer understand becoming a motherless mother.
It’s only been ten months. But grief has already taught me so much, and learning is how I cope.
Two truths I hold close:
Grief doesn’t get smaller; life gets bigger—if you build it.
Suffering comes from being at war with what is.
The grief, the exhaustion, it can swallow you whole. But building my life back up is my way out. Bringing back joy. Embracing those who are here. Staying rooted in what is.
Regardless of the relationship, regardless of how long it’s been--I don’t know if we ever grow out of the phase of wanting our moms. Can that chord ever really be cut? I think we may always just want our mom there.
If so, maybe this is my chance to build a new relationship with her. One without expectations she can’t live up to.
But for now, we’re surviving— we’re learning, finding joy, and mothering one day at a time.