I was driving to a school the other day and this song came on—“Holding Her Freedom” by Gabe Dixon (Spotify) / YouTube. There’s this line that just guts me every time:
“She says she’s gotta start living.
She says living won’t keep us alive.”
That hits. Going through the motions isn’t the same as actually living. Surviving is not the same as living.
I think I'm living again for the first time in a long time. Having my son probably cracked something open. The meds help. I’m not white-knuckling through every day anymore. I’m here.
The Fog and The Godfather
Depression, for me, is fog. You can still move, still do things, but everything feels distant and dulled. Then one day the fog lifts and you realize: oh, I’ve been walking around in this gray for months.
Mother’s Day has always been part of that fog.
I don’t even remember how old I was—ten? High school?—but one year we forgot to say “Happy Mother’s Day” first thing in the morning. We had a First Communion to get to. It's a normal Sunday. When we got home, my mom was pissed. We’d broken the script.
She told us to get out of the house. So we did.
My dad took us to the beach. I had to collect shells for a school project (which gave the day a weird sense of purpose). When we returned, my mom had spent the whole day watching all three Godfather movies. That became the tradition—every year after: The Godfather marathon on Mother’s Day.
A Glass of Wine and a Soft Reframe
The other day, a school psych I work with casually asked what I was doing for Mother’s Day. I half-shrugged and mumbled something to change the subject.
She just nodded. “I never liked it either,” she said. “It felt like a job.”
Then she told me what she does now: a glass of wine, a little charcuterie board, kids playing nearby. Nothing fancy. Just me and the girls with our kids.
“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Your son’s still little. It’s okay if all you do is sit outside with a glass of wine.”
That stuck. She wasn’t trying to fix me but offering a way out of the fog.
My First Step
Even just hearing “Happy Mother’s Day” makes my whole body clench. So maybe that’s my first step: noticing the clench, not trying to push past it, just… noticing, and then letting myself do the day my way.
Anticipating, Anchoring, Adapting
I don’t have it all figured out. But I know I no longer want to grind through this holiday. So I’m trying something smaller: a little plan and softness.
Here’s what I’m playing with this year:
1. Anticipating
Name the day before it sneaks up on you.
Ask: What usually shows up? Grief? Flatness? Numbness?
Do what you have to do ahead of time. Let the rest go.
Write yourself a sticky note for the morning:
“You don’t have to earn your worth today.”
2. Anchoring
Pick something steady: a playlist, a comfy hoodie, a go-to snack.
When the spiral starts:
Inhale: I’m here.
Exhale: I’m safe.
3. Adapting
If your chest tightens or your fuse gets short, that’s not failure. That’s your nervous system doing what it knows. You’re not broken. You’re practiced.
Now you get to try something else. Cheese with a friend? Sit outside by yourself? No explanations required.
The Fog, Named
For years, Mother’s Day felt like a test I was destined to fail.
When you live with invisible depression, you get really good at performing: showing up, smiling, hitting all the right marks.
Sometimes it’s not even sadness. Sometimes it’s just flatness. And when everyone expects a celebration, all you want is to close the door.
A Note on Freedom (and Brie)
Depression taught me how to brace.
I’m learning how to soften.
A little ritual. A little cheese. Prosciutto, brie, fig jam. Enough fancy Italian meats to make the day taste like mine.
Freedom doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes it’s just a plate, a breath, and a moment you don’t have to defend.
A Gentle Resource
If Mother’s Day feels hard this year, Option B's guide is a beautiful, no-pressure resource for navigating grief, distance, or unmet hopes. You don’t have to hold it alone.
https://optionb.org/how-to-get-support-on-mothers-day
This was tender and honest in all the right ways. I felt the weight and the quiet relief in your words, especially the reminder that freedom can look like fig jam and a deep breath. Thank you for sharing this.