Motherhood Without My Mum: Love, Loss, and Preparing for the Hardest Conversations

Nov 20

3 min read

When I look at Finley, I see so much of my mum in him. I see the cheeky spark she would have adored, the mischievous glint in his eyes that she would have encouraged. I can almost picture her teaching him how to bend the rules just enough to make us laugh but not get into too much trouble. She would have been the one sneaking him sweets, letting him stay up late, and giggling with him about the things he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

But she’s not here. And while I feel her presence in so many ways—watching over us, smiling down on her grandson—the reality of her absence is something I face every day. It’s something I know Finley will one day have to face, too. The thought of explaining to him that his grandmother, my mum, passed away when I was seven, already scares me. How do I put something so painful into words a child can understand? I know I still have a few years before that day comes, but the weight of it lingers, and the idea of having that conversation fills me with dread.

I want to protect him from that pain for as long as I can. He’s too little to understand grief, and I want his world to be filled with nothing but love and joy for as long as possible. But one day, he’ll ask. He’ll want to know about her, about why she’s not here, and I’ll have to find a way to explain. Even now, thinking about it, my chest tightens. How do you tell your child about loss when you’re still grappling with it yourself?

I only truly began to understand the full weight of not having my mum when I gave birth to Finley. It wasn’t just the trauma of nearly losing him—or myself—that overwhelmed me. It was realising that I was stepping into motherhood, without her. I remember holding Finley, looking into his tiny face, and feeling both immense love and profound sadness. In that moment, I thought about how much she would have loved him, how much I wished she was there to share in those first precious days.

The ache of her absence has been sharpest in the little moments—when I’m exhausted and wish I had someone to lean on, or when I see friends sharing those special milestones with their mums and children. Watching them get the help and support I’ll never have leaves a lump in my throat. It’s not bitterness, but an ache—a quiet, unspoken envy for something I can never change. I have to shake it off because it’s my reality, but the finality of that realisation is heartbreaking.

Still, there’s beauty in what I have. My grandparents, who raised me after my mum passed, have been my constant. They stepped in and gave me a foundation of love and stability when I needed it most. Now, as I care for them and watch them bond with Finley, I feel the circle of life so deeply. But I also see the fleeting nature of time, and I worry about the future. Who will Finley have on my side of the family as he grows up? Will he feel the connection to his roots that I want so badly for him?

Even though our family is small, I try to fill his world with stories and memories. I want him to know where he comes from, to feel the love of those who came before him, even if he never gets to meet them. I tell him about my mum—how much she would have adored him, how she would have been the one to spoil him rotten and encourage his cheeky side. I like to think he’ll feel her love through the stories, through the way I carry her memory forward in our lives.

Motherhood has taught me so much about holding joy and grief together. There’s pain in what I’ve lost, but also incredible love in what I’ve gained. Finley is my light, my reminder that love can grow even in the shadow of loss. And though I don’t know how I’ll find the words to tell him about his grandma, I hope that when the time comes, he’ll feel her love and presence in the life we’ve built.