Grieving Outloud: My First Mother’s Day Without Mom — Community & Salmon Croquettes

Mother’s Day was different this year for all the obvious reasons. My Mom is not here! It felt -

Heavy! Quiet! Tender in places I could not fully explain!

All week long, Facebook Memories reminded me of years past — visits with my mother, photographs we took together, little moments that once felt ordinary and now feel sacred. I found myself missing her in waves I could not adequately express.

It hit me this past week - this is my first Mother’s Day without my mom.

And grief is strange. Sometimes it arrives loudly. Sometimes it waits until the stillness before dawn.

Yesterday, I attended a beautiful gathering hosted by a dear friend and mentor. She has hosted this women’s event every year since the passing of her own mother 26 years ago. This was my second year attending, but this year I arrived differently. I arrived grieving.

The event was intentional in every way — community, softness, care, sisterhood. There was laughter, conversation, food, pampering, prayer, and shared stories. A massage therapist was present offering foot massages, and while sitting there, he gently asked me when I had last received one.

I told him my daughter had gifted me one in October after my mother passed away in September. That simple question opened the door to something deeper. We began sharing about our mothers. I told him how much I missed mine and jokingly said, “I would take a strong rebuke from her right now if she were here.”

Immediately, I remembered one evening when my mother had called and corrected me harshly about something. I cried all night afterward. The gentleman looked at me kindly and said, “But she was right.”

And instantly, I knew: that was my mother. Strong! Honest! Loving! Correcting! Covering!

There were several women there who had also lost their mothers. Shared grief filled the room. At one point, I was asked to read a devotional about the value of community — about how even in difficult, painful, and challenging seasons, we still need one another.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Matthew 5:4 KJV

It set the tone for the afternoon.

Later, a song was played — Missing You.

We were asked to hold hands.

And I cried so hard my eyelashes came off.

Women shared their pain openly: One woman said she never wanted her children to feel this kind of grief after she passes.

Another shared how the pain never truly leaves, even when it becomes less intense.

When it was my turn to speak, I shared honestly how I ache for my mother. And I do not anticipate that ache ever fully leaving me. I told them that when mothers truly love, nurture, sacrifice, and build relationship with their children, grief is inevitable when they leave this earth. It is natural. It is holy. It is an honor to their memory.

I told the woman worried about her children grieving her one day: “If your children grieve you deeply, it means you mothered well.”

That room became sacred space.

Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.— Galatians 6:2 KJV

Even in my own grief, God allowed me to minister to others. We paused to pray for a woman whose friend had just lost her mother earlier in the week. There were tears, prayers, embraces, and understanding that only shared experience can create.

And then there were the salmon croquettes.

Of all things.

When I first arrived at the buffet line, I immediately noticed them. Salmon croquettes.

Most people would not think twice about it. But I did.

Because months ago, while caring for my mother before she passed, she once asked me:

“Pam, do you make salmon patties? That sounds good for dinner.” I refused. I told her the apartment would smell for days. She laughed and teased me:“You don’t know how to make them, do you?” Truthfully, she was trying to goad me into cooking them anyway. And I didn’t.

That moment has haunted me more than I have admitted out loud.

Not because of salmon patties. But because grief will magnify even the smallest unfinished moment. The painful thing is — I cooked everything else she asked for. Dressing. Sweet potato pie. Lima beans. Smothered pork chops. Chicken strips with white gravy. The afternoon my mother passed away, I was literally standing at the stove preparing pork chops and fried potatoes for her return from dialysis. I cared for my mother lovingly.

Yet somehow, those salmon patties stayed in my heart like evidence against myself.

Yesterday, eating those salmon croquettes was unexpectedly emotional. I could not fully reconcile why they were there, why they affected me so deeply, or why I suddenly felt overwhelmed by something so small.

Before dawn, peace came.

But sometime before dawn this morning, the Holy Spirit spoke peace to my heart.

Not condemnation!Peace! And I realized: The salmon croquettes were not there to accuse me. They were there to release me. All is forgiven!

I did take good care of my mother! I did love her well!

And maybe — just maybe — that small moment was Heaven’s gentle reminder that love is not measured by one unfinished meal. It is measured by a lifetime of presence.

So today, on my first Mother’s Day without Mom, I am grieving out loud.

But I am also grateful. Grateful for community. Grateful for sisterhood. Grateful for prayer.

Grateful for shared understanding. Grateful for mothers. Grateful for beautiful memories.

And grateful that even before dawn, God still knows how to comfort His daughters.

Mom… I miss you!

And I now know you knew every day you were deeply loved!

Sometimes God sends comfort in the form of community, memory, flowers…

and even salmon croquettes.