By Jaime Crowe 
Mother’s Day is one of the hardest days of the year for me.
The truth is, I always wanted to be a mom.
I’m not a mother. Not in the traditional sense.
And while I usually stay quiet on days like this, today I want to speak for the ones who carry this ache quietly…without cards, without flowers, without answers.
In college, I was the girl with pillows under her shirt, daydreaming about baby names and planning a future I never got to hold.
I once bought a house and made a nursery for children who never came.
I remember standing in that empty room, imagining myself rocking slowly in a chair beside the crib. The mobile turning slowly in the dim light was the only movement that room ever knew.
It wasn’t a lack of desire. It wasn’t a choice.
It just…didn’t happen.
People often assume I chose another life.
What they don’t know is that every Mother’s Day carries a quiet grief that expands with age.
And just now, as I’m typing this on a New York City subway, a little girl sat beside me.
She kept leaning closer, smiling up at me as the train rocked gently through the tunnel.
Finally she asked, “Do you have kids?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and told her no.
But that I get to meet sweet kids like her…
And that I also get to spend time with the little version of me who still needs to be parented…the one who still needs to be reminded she’s magic, and still deserves to be loved and chosen and seen.
Today, I honor every woman walking around with this ache.
The aunties.
The teachers.
The caretakers.
The ones who mother the world in quiet, powerful ways.
The ones who grieve in silence.
The ones still hoping.
The ones who made peace with a different path.
This isn’t a piece for sympathy.
It’s a reminder that the tender parts of us deserve space too.
To my nieces and nephews: thank you for letting me love you with all the maternal energy I carry.
You are a gift to this heart of mine.
To the little girl on the subway: thank you for seeing me.
You reminded me that even in the depths of this ache, there is still connection…still beauty…still unexpected moments of being seen.
And to this city—thank you.
For letting me cry on a subway.
For holding me on the sidewalks.
For giving me space to move through complicated grief in motion, in stillness, and everything in between.
by Christen McKey 
