This Mother’s Day, I want to honor my mama mentor—my best friend.
If you’re lucky, you have someone like this. Someone who shows up even when it’s messy. Someone who says, “I have no idea what I’m doing,” but somehow offers exactly what’s needed. Not expertise—presence. Not certainty—connection.
For many reasons, my own mother couldn’t always be that person for me. And when I was pregnant with my youngest, she died.
Yes, I carry her with me—her warmth, her quirks, her instinct to celebrate ordinary moments. But I didn’t get the years of calling her just to say, “What do I do now?” I didn’t get to hear her say, “You’re doing just fine,” in the exhausted moments I needed to hear it most.
And yet… her absence created room.
Room to reach out. Room to ask. Room to be mentored not just by one person, but by a constellation of women who mother in the best ways I know: through connection, curiosity, and a deep refusal to prioritize perfection over love.
The House That’s Full (In All the Right Ways)
The other day, my best friend said something in that quiet, grounded way she has—the kind of sentence that settles on your shoulders and changes everything without fanfare:
“I work less in the summer, because my house is full.”
Her two children—one grown, one still in college—come home for the season. And when they do, her house holds them. Because it always has.
Her home is not staged. It’s not curated. It’s not clean for company or filtered for a fancy party.
It’s lived in.
There are photos of her kids from the day they were born until yesterday. A collage that just… evolved. Artwork from preschool still taped to the wall. Maybe a Flat Stanley or two tucked in a drawer. There’s a sense of time passing with them—not around them.
Her house holds science experiments, laughter, grief, and growth.
It makes room for feelings—hers, theirs, everyone’s.
And that is not an accident. That is love, practiced in daily form.
I thought about her as I drove through Northern Virginia that afternoon—past the cul-de-sacs and clear-cut land, past the looming data farms and a hundred restaurants advertising a dozen cuisines. In the swirl of ambition and striving that so often defines this region, her home stands in stark contrast.
Her home is full—not of stuff, but of soul.
My Mother, My Mentor, and the Sweater That Held It All
My best friend has never said she’s trying to replace my mother. That would be weird. She wouldn’t. But there are moments—moments like this sweater—that link them in ways words can’t.
When my daughter was small, she told her Oma—my mom—that she wanted a “purple and ‘ellow sweater.” Even though my mom was dying, she lived with us the 6 of the last 10 months of her life, my mom didn’t blink. She went to the store, picked out yarn, and began knitting on the spot. She held the half-finished sweater up to my daughter, pulled rows out, started again, giggled, and kept going. It was imperfect. And perfect. Messy and fun.
Years later, my son pulled it on with pride and named it “Oma’s funny sweater.”
He wore it like his sister who also had blond hair and an elfish smile. Our son didn’t speak a lot during this time. He did have something to say about this sweater though. Who wouldn’t with a sweater made of such flexible, immediate, responsive artistry and unrefined structure?
That sweater, like the home of my best friend I described, holds something real.
It’s not stylish in a catalogue or one of those stores that try to tell you that everything should match. It’s not on trend. But it’s exactly what we needed.
The Science of Emotional Safety
My BFF has that kind of home—the emotionally attuned kind—has measurable benefits. A 2020 JAMA Pediatrics study found that adolescents raised in warm, consistent households experienced fewer symptoms of anxiety and depression, even when life outside the home was chaotic.
The APA (2021) goes further: the most significant predictor of long-term wellbeing in children isn’t extracurriculars or enrichment activities. It’s the quality of the parent-child relationship.
Not how many books they read although literacy is up there on the list of important things. Not what school they attend. Not how clean the house is.
How safe they feel. How seen.
And that’s what my best friend never lost focus on. “I’m raising human beings,” she says, “not success stories.”
She has never wavered. And the result? Two of the most grounded, thoughtful, self-aware young adults I’ve ever met.
What We Lost During the Emergency
Since COVID—and especially during my own stretch of chronic illness—our family’s rhythms unraveled. We were in survival mode. I know many of you were too.
The dancing in the living room? Gone.
The storytelling by the fire? Stopped.
Cards, just because? No time.
Candles for no reason? Forgot how.
A 2023 Family Process study found that families under prolonged pandemic-related stress lost not just routines but the micro-rituals that support emotional regulation and connection. Those small moments—shared meals, bedtime chats, spontaneous fun—anchor us.
And when those vanish, so does the sense of home as sanctuary.
I hadn’t realized how much we lost until I found myself staring at an old photo of my daughter and a paper wedding bouquet from my friend Heather’s wedding in 2011.
It stopped me.
I used to mark the seasons. Intentionally. Not with holiday sales, but with symbols that mattered. I pulled the bouquet out and placed it on the table again.
A reminder: I can do this again.
Another photo, another lesson.
This fish, drawn by my daughter at age five, now sits framed beside my desk. I remember thinking: it’s so full of life, color, texture—just like her. And then I wondered, when did we stop noticing that?
That picture is going up again. Imperfect edges and all.
And then, another treasure surfaced.
It was small. A folded scrap of paper with my son’s handwriting—crooked, difficult to read. His thoughts have always outpaced his fine motor skills, and writing has never come easily. But this time, I paused long enough to make out the words:
“Mom, you are intelligent, brave, bold, compassionate, loving, caring, and shine bright as the sun up close. I hope you get better. My sun. P.S. You are the best you could be.”
I read it once. Then again. Then I just held it.
The letter was uneven and urgent and raw in the way only a child’s love note can be. And in that moment, I keep forgetting: even when the routines fall apart, even when the rituals fade and the house feels like chaos, love still finds a way to leave its fingerprints.
Sometimes it’s a fish drawing, sometimes it’s a bouquet made of paper, and sometimes it’s a crumpled note tucked between the couch cushions that says, in not-so-perfect handwriting, “You are the best you could be.”
I’m keeping that one out. Imperfect edges and all.
How to Fill Your Home With Love (Not Stuff)
You don’t need to renovate. You don’t need to spend. You just need to choose presence over perfection.
Here’s what I’m practicing:
Mark the Seasons Simply
Bring in blooming branches. Acorns. A shell. Let the earth guide your décor, not retail trends.
Example: The paper bouquet from Heather’s wedding—it brought me back to who I was then. More grounded. More in sync.
Display Real Memories
Old artwork. Handwritten cards. Masking-taped photos. Let the imperfection be part of the beauty.
Example: My daughter’s fish drawing. It said more about her spirit than any school award ever could.
Smudge the Walls
Cook. Spill. Let dinner be messy. Let the sauce stain the wall. Homes are not museums.
Example: This photo of us making a chaotic meal—and laughing our way through it—reminds me: we knew how to savor.
Declutter Emotionally
Marie Kondo your soul. If it doesn’t connect you to love or belonging, it’s clutter.
Example: My son, holding up a toy and saying, “Mama, just laugh with me.” That’s the whole mission, isn’t it?
Make Everyday Moments Sacred
Dance. Play cards. Light a candle. Tell stories from “before you were born.” Let it feel full.
Example: My son wearing “Oma’s crazy sweater.” It’s a story woven into fabric. And it’s still being worn.
A Personal Commitment
This season, I’m taping drawings back on the walls.
I’m cooking without worrying about the mess.
I want people to walk into my home and feel:
- safe
- nourished
- connected
Not impressed. Not wowed. Just… held.
Because what I want, more than anything, is to build a home that bursts at the seams with love.
What’s one small, beautiful thing you’ll bring into your home this season?
And what heavy, needless thing are you ready to let go of?
Mothering Is Connection
This Mother’s Day, if you have a mama mentor—call her.
And if you don’t—look around. Who in your life lives with intention and heart? Who listens without fixing? Who makes space for mess?
That’s your person. Bring them closer.
Mothering, at its core, is about connection. And we can all mother each other a little more—whether we are biological parents or not.
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