Motherhood Starts Before the Baby (A Mother’s Day Welcome for Those Longing, Waiting, or Grieving)
- Jessica
- May 3
- 4 min read
Updated: May 6
You don’t have to arrive here with a clean sentence.
If Mother’s Day feels tender—because you’re longing, waiting, grieving, burnt out, anxious, or quietly re-learning who you are—I’m really glad you found your way in.
I’m a mother and an artist. I’m also a loss mom—I lost my son shortly after birth. I’m not a clinician, and I’m not offering medical advice. I’m here to share language, reframes, and small, optional practices that have helped me stay close to myself in seasons that can feel isolating.
Take what supports you. Leave what doesn’t.
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Motherhood can start before anyone else can see it
There’s a kind of motherhood that begins long before a baby is in your arms—inside longing, inside waiting, inside grief, inside the quiet decision to keep hoping.
If your journey includes fertility treatments, uncertainty, loss, “not yet,” or “not again,” you don’t have to minimize any of it to be welcome in this space.
And if Mother’s Day is tender for other reasons—postpartum shifts, burnout, anxiety, identity changes, or a heaviness you can’t quite name—you belong here too.
Because love changes a person while it’s still becoming.
One moment I keep coming back to
There was a season when becoming a mother took years—years that refused to follow a clean timeline.
It was hope, then heartbreak. A brave day, then a fragile one. Trying again while still carrying what had already happened.
I remember the quiet after another disappointment. The courage to try again after a grave loss. I sat still, put my hand on my belly—though there was nothing there to hold—and whispered, “I still want this.”
Not as a performance of strength. More like a small, private vow.
And I realized: this is what no one prepares you for—the invisible endurance. The way you keep showing up with a tender heart anyway.
A redefinition that helped me breathe
Here’s what I believe, as simply as I can say it:
If you are holding the desire to raise a child—if you are making room in your life and body and heart for that love—something in you is already mothering, and you don’t need to prove it to anyone.
If the word “motherhood” doesn’t feel right for you, you’re still welcome here—use whatever language fits your experience.
Not because a label is owed to you.
Not because you’ve reached a milestone.
But because love is real even when it’s still private.
Fertility journeys often look like:
Holding hope with one hand and fear with the other
Learning the language of appointments, tests, and waiting windows
Carrying, and then losing
Carrying grief for a child who isn’t physically here
Carrying the ache of uncertainty—month after month
And in those seasons, there can be real mothering:
Protecting your softness. Preparing your life. Advocating for your body.
Grieving with devotion. Choosing to continue.
If you’d like a gentle weekly prompt…
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A gentle truth: you shouldn’t have to qualify your pain
So many people in fertility and loss feel pressured to “prove” they belong in motherhood—as if it only counts once the world can witness it.
But some of the deepest mothering happens out of sight.
Your love doesn’t become real only when it becomes visible.
What this space is (and isn’t)
Just so we’re clear, friend:
I’m not a clinician.
I’m not here to diagnose, fix, or prescribe.
I’m not offering crisis-level support.
I’m a bereaved mom and artist sharing what has helped me and offering gentle, optional prompts.
If you’re in crisis or need clinical support, reaching out to a licensed professional or a local support line can be a strong next step.
What you’ll find here
If you keep reading along, my hope is that this space feels like a soft landing—not another thing to keep up with.
Here’s what I’m committed to:
Soft honesty for complicated seasons (no performative positivity)
Gentle reflection (no pressure, no “fixing”)
Room for paradox—hope and grief can coexist
Small grounding practices you can do in real life
Community before commerce—connection first, always
A question (only if you want it)
If it feels safe to share, I’d love to invite one small sentence from you:
What part of your journey do you wish people understood better—without you having to explain it?
You can answer privately in a journal, or share it in the comments if that feels supportive.
A tiny practice for today (optional)
Place one hand on your heart. Breathe once, slow.
Then finish this gently—out loud, in your notes app, or just in your mind:
“Today, the way I’m mothering is…”
It can be something small:
“Showing up to an appointment.”
“Letting myself rest.”
“Trying again.”
“Admitting I’m tired.”
“One more breath.”
Before you go
If you want one simple next step toward support (no fixing, no pressure):
Subscribe to receive 1 gentle reflection prompt each week (free).
This week’s prompt: “What are you carrying this week—silently or out loud?” (One word counts.)
No spam, no pressure. Unsubscribe anytime.
If you’d rather take a quiet next step today, here are two softer options:
Start here: Welcome — For Mothers Living in the Messy Middle
Join the Facebook Group: Oleabloom & Co Community
And if you want to leave a trace of what you’re carrying:
Leave a comment with one sentence: “This Mother’s Day, I’m carrying __.” (One word counts.)
Closing
If you’re longing, trying, waiting, carrying, grieving—or holding hope that feels fragile—there’s nothing wrong with you for feeling how much this costs.
You don’t have to wait for permission to belong.
You don’t have to earn the right to be tender.
Love,
Jessica
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