The Reality of Being a Motherless Mothers

Community member and TMM trustee Fiona Mukherjee reflects on a year without her mum and how grief can show up in the most unexpected moments.

Views expressed are those of the contributors, not our organisation, which does not accept responsibility for their accuracy, legality, or content.

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I had just returned to work from my first maternity leave. My daughter had just turned one.

I wish that period of time was a blur, but it’s not. I remember it so vividly. The visceral pain when I found out she had ovarian cancer. The fear when I heard it had metastasised. The hope when I realised palliative care could mean many more years with her. The hope when the doctors talked about immunotherapy and being able to discharge her. The shock when I got the call to say she wouldn’t make it through the night. The disbelief while I held her hand as she took her last breath.

Losing your Mum is a truly life-altering experience. Grieving while being a mother and looking after a young child has felt impossible at times. Over the past year, my life has changed in more ways than I could have imagined.

I write as someone who has experienced loss and lives with grief, but I suspect these themes would also be felt by anyone who is navigating their mother’s long-term illness or is estranged from her.

Jealousy

I am jealous of women who still have their mums.

Grandmothers pushing prams in the park. Hearing people say “My Mum’s got the kids this weekend” or the “I couldn’t do it without my Mum” comments - well-meaning, but devastating. I’m jealous on my own behalf, and I’m jealous on Mum’s behalf, for all the Granny moments she’ll never have.

I never thought of myself as a jealous person. But maybe I am now? Grief has rearranged me in ways I’m still discovering, and I’m not sure which parts will stay.

The absence of (the best part of your) village

This isn’t just about not having her close by for the nursery run.

It’s not having someone to ask what I was like at that age. Not having the person to send photos to. Not having someone who would have loved my daughter with the fierce, uncomplicated love that only a Granny can bring.

Of course, logistics do come into it. The safe pair of hands who was meant to be the backup for the most precious thing in your life. The person you were supposed to be able to call in a crisis at 3am.

And it’s the loss of your own safety net. The one person in the world you should be able to rely on for anything. The one person who should be your safe space as a new mother (or any stage of motherhood, in fact).

The ‘What Ifs’ you didn’t expect

Losing Mum at the time I became a Mum was so painful.

Because finally, I understood her in a different way. Becoming a mother made me recognise the love, the sacrifices, the safety, the energy she gave to being a Mum. To me. I had a completely new sense of the love she’d shown me, and I didn’t have enough time or chances to truly tell her, or talk to her about it as one mother to another.

I often wonder how our relationship would have evolved from here, how much closer we would have become as I grew into motherhood.

As a mother, I know how scared she must have been at the end, knowing she was going to die. I know how desperate she was to stay. It breaks my heart every time I think about it.

The impossibility of being present

You’re told endlessly that these are the best years. Be present. Enjoy them. Before you know it they’ll be gone.

I actually believe this. My daughter just turned two and I love this age. But try telling a motherless mother to “enjoy the moment” and I’m sure her heart will fall.

Because grief makes being present really hard. Every part of your brain is telling you to keep busy, to distract, to not stop - because stopping is when the pain consumes you. And it’s not just the hard moments. The wonderful ones are tainted too. Every time my daughter learns something new or does something funny, my heart leaps and then immediately drops. The person I want to tell isn’t here.

Even when she calls out for “Mama”, it’s a trigger. I don’t get to do that anymore. My biggest priority in life - the strength of my love for her - makes me even more aware I don’t have that for myself anymore.

Joy still exists. But it’s coupled with sadness.

The loneliness in your closest friendships

Being a motherless mother is lonely.

For people who have been through this, they get it. But the reality at 35 is that the majority of your friends are (hopefully) very far from it. There are people who try, and I appreciate them so much. They acknowledge the hard days, they check in and they do what they can.

And there are friends, some long-time friends, who, other than a text after it happened, have never truly acknowledged the loss I’ve experienced. They don’t ask how I’m doing, they don’t check in on the milestone days.

I understand it’s uncomfortable. I see the uncomfortable shuffle when they talk about their own mothers. None of it malicious, none of it ill-intended.

I want to be clear that I don’t begrudge them for it either. But it certainly underlines the gap between me and them. It makes me realise how different I am now. And the reality is because of it, my friendship circle has tightened. I have a much smaller group of wonderful people who I know I can rely on. I don’t know where I’d be without them.

Fear of what’s next

I always wanted more than one child. But the thought of being pregnant again, of raising another child who’ll never meet my Mum, terrifies me. I worry about my own mental health in that scenario - motherless mothers are three times more likely to experience postnatal depression. An important statistic, but not a surprising one.

The reality of motherless mothering is hard, and it reshapes how you imagine your future. Decisions that should be joyful become loaded with calculations about what could have been if Mum was still here.

Love Harder

But it isn’t all bad. I didn’t think it was possible to love Cleo any more than I already did. But after Mum died, I found that, somehow, I do.

Becoming a motherless mother has made me love so much more deeply. When I think of what Cleo will miss out on - the unconditional, magical love that only a Granny can provide - being spoiled in a way a parent can’t - it makes me want to do more for her. Experience more things together, create new traditions, build more memories.

I don’t take for granted the special memories my Mum created for me; I understand how much they cost and how intentional they were. It makes me motivated to do the same for my daughter.

I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore; grief has a way of making it obvious what matters.

I have often felt that the loneliest part of being a motherless mother is the feeling that no one gets it.

And that part isn’t actually true.

The Motherless Mothers is where I found mine - a community that has shown me that people do get it. They’re just often quiet about it.

If any of this landed for you, please know you’re not the only one feeling these things. You might just be the only one in your immediate circle.

Fi Mukherjee writes Mothering Without My Mother - a Substack on grief and motherhood. For essays on the everyday realities of navigating motherhood without her Mum, subscribe here.