Sunday was Mother’s Day. I took to Facebook and Instagram like everyone else I know, posting numerous quotes about moms, pics of my large family celebrating over a beautifully catered lunch, and throwing in a few shots of my dog, who despite the recent complaints of actual human moms, I loosely and only half-jokingly consider myself a parent to. 

And while I do love and cherish my mother, my grandmother, my aunts, and the 9 out of 10 of my girlfriends who have plunged into parenthood, for most of the day I was feeling things I felt I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – post on social media. But when reflecting today, maybe it would have been important for me to do just that.

Scrolling though my Facebook feed and the infinite number of posts identical to mine, I couldn’t help but imagine how the day must be a painful one for so many women, starting with those who planned to be celebrating as mothers themselves.

A handful of women in my life have suffered miscarriages in the last few years, and I’ve seen at close range the sadness of plans for such a joyous and monumental event as welcoming a new baby into the world just vanishing in an instant. These once-expectant mothers suddenly find themselves reconciling the idea that life is about to change completely with the reality that life would indeed remain the same, though missing something significant.

And sure, we’re all there offering support when they make the call to relay the bad news. But then time passes, and though we know there is no set time frame on healing, we (incorrectly) figure that if they want to talk about it, they will. So we stop asking. Or perhaps more accurately, out of fear of saying the wrong thing, we say nothing at all.

Miscarriages are so much more common than they are spoken of – one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage; a stat I personally found shocking – and perhaps that fear of being a downer, or providing a “reminder” of the painful memory are the main reasons we don’t discuss the experience openly and often. I’d imagine that leaves the women experiencing that pain also feeling lonely and left to deal with their feelings on their own.

I recently read an interview with Sheryl Sandberg in which she discussed feeling not only overwhelming grief after the loss of her husband, but also the most isolated she’d ever felt. When she returned to work, the friends and coworkers she’d always felt connected to looked at her “like a deer in the headlights” and barely spoke to her. They weren’t awful people; they just didn’t know what to say. Sort of like not reaching out to any of these women in my life – though I knew they must be struggling – on Mother’s Day.

And then there are all those who lost their mothers this year. Or last year, or a decade ago. And the women who have fractured mother-daughter relationships. And those who are part of an unconventional family situation that doesn’t include their biological parents. And the women who chose to gave up a child and grapple with that choice. Those who are infertile but have never stopped wanting a baby of their own. I wonder what feelings Mother’s Day brings up for all of them. And the next time I wonder, I want to force myself to ask.

The beauty is that we, as women, are naturally empathetic and nurturing. We are good at lending our ears and our shoulders and our love to other women in need. We are able to endure endless setbacks and overcome disappointments by leaning on each other and sharing our pain with trusted friends. 

So I’m shifting my mindset of this holiday from a day of recognizing the traditional mothers in my life to a celebration of all women, and the imperfect relationships we have with one another. 

And Sunday night, I finally did ask, “how do you feel today?” to a friend who miscarried last year. She told me it wasn’t easy, that it was hitting her hard. And then she cried. I stood there wishing there were something more I could say. So I was honest.

“I’m sorry,” I managed. “I wish there was something more I could say.” She thanked me.

Yes, it was awkward. But it didn’t kill me, and it didn’t kill her. And though it was just a simple exchange of words, for a moment we were sharing the experience, and she wasn’t alone.