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.

Brandi Shrub was a tall, skinny, and – ok – pretty brunette with teased hair and tattoos, donning lip injections by the time she was 16. Having been left back two or three times, Brandi and I shared the same 8th grade lunch period despite our three year age difference.

An innocent idiot, I made the mistake of having a crush on Rick Serafino, the junior high “Bad Boy” who piqued my interest by being a potential bad influence. He not only did, but dealt drugs, and had more sexual experience at the time than I do today at 43. Way out of my sheltered little league, Rick was the epitome of danger. Already an enthusiast for drama and pain, I had no choice but to fall for him (Rinse and repeat for the rest of my life, by the way).

It was only after I’d let the news of my affection leak that I discovered Brandi liked Rick, too.  I learned this bit of info from the source herself.

“LAUREN,” she yelled on my way out of the cafeteria.

Brandi Shrub knew my name? This realization was both terrifying and exhilarating; my first brush with the feeling I’d grow to love.

“Hi!” I replied, turning to greet her as if I were comfortable.

“You’re disgusting,” she spat as she sauntered past, close enough to intentionally knock my backpack off my shoulder and onto the floor.  “Rick will never go out with a fat pig like you.”

All of the blood in my body drained to my ankles. I braced myself for a hard faint, but nothing happened. I just stood there, shaking, trying to come to terms with the fresh wound that just opened in my soul. 

The comments continued every day for a week. I learned to stare ahead and travel outside of myself as I endured the abuse. I tried to hum loud enough that I couldn’t hear the words being hurled at me, along with paper airplanes, as I’d walk for what felt like hours towards my spot at the lunch table each day.  But even in my attempts to ignore the insults, I grew to understand that I was:

Ugly,

Stupid,

A loser,

A nerd,

Gross with greasy hair, and

A waste of too much space.

Even months after Brandi got bored with me and started torturing someone else, something had changed inside of me – permanently. 

I never spoke to Rick Serafino. He’d walk past me and wink in acknowledgment that he knew what I’d been through. I appreciated his pity. It was the best I could get. It was the most I deserved.

I haven’t seen Brandi since shortly thereafter, but she’s still vaguely present in my life.

I laugh a little too loud, find a joke too funny; I hear her. I walk into a crowded room late, becoming the center of attention; she heckles. A doorman whistles when I walk by; she scoffs. I admit I have feelings for someone; she mocks me. He leans in for a hug and grazes my midsection; she smirks.

She has told me more about myself over time than she ever actually said. She is relentless, wicked, and always there.

Chalk it up to spending too much time in the car alone, but I may have done too much thinking this weekend.

I just arrived home after a 4 and 1/2 hour drive from New Hampshire, where I visited my college roommate and met her sweet little offspring for the first time.  Let it be known that every Saturday night should be spent on the couch watching 3 and 4 year olds perform.*

It was uplifting to have dinner with friends whom I gradually lost touch with since Time hijacked the party. Last night, I laughed (HARD) with genuinely good people. It’s strange to think that I once saw them multiple times a day for years at a time, and now we hardly email on much more than a yearly basis. I shared so many “firsts” with this crowd – both good and bad. It occurred to me that as an adult, you never really meet friends that can grow with you like that.

It’s been over 10 years since we graduated from the Beer and Spoiled Princess Capital of America, when we were still invincible in our sweatpants and lettered tees. Back then, just point me to the nearest keg and frat house on a Friday night, and I was “living.” How else is a girl to unwind after a long week of not working hard? Daytime talk shows take a welcomed toll on your mental health, and coming up with excuses for not attending class is truly exhausting. If not for the weekends, college would have been pure anguish.

I realize now that at 21, I was nowhere near the point of understanding the brevity of Youth and the fragility of Life. Even now, as I’ve learned to accept that things change, Time’s pace quickens, and people will both float and storm out of your life despite your best efforts to retain them, I often get scared by Reality. I jump straight from knowing that I’m not guaranteed any more than this very moment, to being petrified of losing it all tomorrow to a terminal illness or a tragic accident. There is no in-between.

I want to cherish every instant. I want to be a better friend. I want to let go of the small stuff and forgive, forgive, forgive. I want to spend my days alive being kind to others and kinder still to myself.

I want to find that in-between.

*take turns announcing one another “on stage” repeatedly for 30 minute intervals, alluding to but not actually executing any sort of actual performance.

Each year, the women in my family gather in Manhattan for a Girls’ Christmas Day. My grandmother, mother, aunts, cousins, and I get tickets to a holiday show and then catch up over dinner. This tradition has become one of my favorite days of the year; it bundles together the two things I love most – Christmas and family.

But this year, we were missing one.

My Aunt Maggie passed away in July. She was only 42 years old and was diagnosed, and quickly overcome, with cancer. It was unexpected, quick, and heartbreaking to watch. In just two months, Aunt Maggie went from being healthy and happy to being taken from her husband of just 6 years and her two beautiful baby boys.

Planning Girls’ Christmas Day was difficult this year. This is our first Christmas without Maggie and it seemed like it would be too hard to carry out the tradition that would only emphasize this shocking loss. But you can’t get past the pain of “first” experiences without your loved one if you don’t force yourself to participate in them. And we knew that Maggie would want us to be together. So we went…

We saw The Pipes of Christmas, a concert in a gorgeous church on the Upper East Side, featuring bagpipes backed by a small orchestra.

I was wary going in. Not because I didn’t think I’d like the music – I love bagpipes. But I wasn’t sure if my heart could take it. Bagpipes remind me of my grandfather, who also lost his life to cancer almost 15 years ago. Grandpa was a cop and played the bagpipes in a band with his fellow police officers in Yonkers. I remember seeing him march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade when I was a kid and being so proud. St. Patrick’s Day was his favorite holiday, and that was the exact day in 1997 that he passed away – right after he watched from his seat on the porch while his former band played a private show for him on his lawn. Poetry couldn’t compete to express the beauty of it.

Being from an Irish family, bagpipes also remind me of funerals. Of saying goodbye.  Of knowing you’ll never see someone again. Of wondering what comes next. Of questioning if there is a God.

So, as the first bagpiper made his way down the church aisle, I was sure I’d have to leave. I tried my hardest to compose myself as a blast of tears spilled down my face at the sound of the very first note. My heart actually ached. I felt it pull downward in my chest. The beautiful sound truly hurt.

I recovered by mentally removing myself. I thought about what I’d wear to work on Monday, what I’d do with my upcoming time off, if there were any last minute presents I still needed to get. And I’d come back to the music long enough to enjoy it, then get upset again.

But then, a man with a thick Scottish brogue approached a standing microphone. He read this poem:

If They Could Speak
by Roseanne Pellicane

Please don’t be afraid. Yes life is different now but remember when it was beautiful?
Well it will be again, though not the same.
The wounds will heal, your tears will dry and though scars remain
I know you are strong enough to live through the pain.
Do not grieve and linger in the shadows of graves.
Go out into the sunshine and tell everyone that I was here.
Let our enemy know that when we were together we lived and worked and loved.
And though I am gone,you will carry on for me because you must.
Tell my family how much I loved them and still do.
Remember the good we shared, the life we created and walk forward with noble dreams.
God can’t fill a shattered heart or a clenched fist.
Let fear die and let love flow again like a river.
So as the smoke rises high above the ash, gather all your strength and rebuild something new, something better.
It’s not impossible. It’s essential. It’s what I would do for you.

Just one last thing, surely you must know, I never wanted to leave you.
I was captured by fate, escorted by angels.
And though you might feel alone, you are not and neither am I.
Love always.

We looked at each other, through tears and smiles, each of us thinking the same comforting thought that we so needed. Girls’ Christmas Day wasn’t missing one at all. We knew, for sure, that Maggie was with us.

And maybe Grandpa joined the party, too.

She was alive last Christmas.

Her lips stained purple
Hands cradled a glass.
“Hey Sista!” she greeted
Me. We embraced.

She laughed.
She was full.
She had love.
She had life.

Yet untouched by cancer,
She feared nothing then.
Just another in a string of holidays,
Like unbroken bulbs.

Not the last.

*Winner of A Little Blog‘s Holiday Poem Contest.