Mother’s Day Looks Different Now

Before my mom’s illness, Mother’s Day was never just another holiday — it was a tradition, a full family event, and one of those days that felt like home in every possible way.

The day before Mother’s Day, my mom would already be preparing. She would make her famous potato salad, peach pies, and her special marinade for the ribs so my dad could grill the next day. I would go out and grab the drinks, extra groceries, and whatever else we needed. We all had our roles, and somehow it always came together.

On Mother’s Day morning, my parents would already be up early.

Samoan music would be playing in the background.

My mom would be in the kitchen, cooking and preparing everything.

My dad would be outside getting the grill and his tools ready.

And I would be setting up the tables inside and outside, making sure everything was ready for family, kids, food, laughter, and another memory.

But my mom was not just the one cooking.

She was the life of the party.

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That was who my mom was — not just on Mother’s Day, but on every holiday.

She would be dancing to the music, making sure everyone had food, checking on family, and making sure everyone was okay. That was who my mom was — not just on Mother’s Day, but on every holiday. She carried so much love, energy, and joy. She made our house feel alive.

Those were the days.

And I miss those days.

Since my mom’s illness, Mother’s Day has changed in ways I never imagined.

Now, instead of preparing for family gatherings, my mom mostly stays in her room, coming out every so often. Because of her sundowning, gatherings became difficult. We tried to keep the tradition going, thinking maybe it would feel normal again, maybe it would be okay — but it wasn’t. My mom would get upset, confused, and ask why so many people were at the house.

That was one of the hardest parts.

Realizing that something we once celebrated so naturally could no longer be the same.

Now, instead of being the life of the party, there are days my mom walks around the house confused, wondering where she is.

And that part hurts.

Because I remember the woman who once filled every room with music, dancing, food, and laughter.

Mother’s Day now feels more like a regular day. Breakfast. Lunch. TV. Routine.

But one thing that still brings comfort is Samoan music.

Even through her illness, playing Samoan music helps my mom. It brings a sense of peace, familiarity, and comfort in ways that are hard to explain. Sometimes music reaches places that words cannot.

And sometimes, when the music plays, I catch a glimpse of my mom again.

A small dance.

A familiar movement.

A brief moment where it feels like the woman I remember is still right there.

Those moments make me happy.

Because even though her illness has changed so much, music still finds her.

There were times we tried taking her out, hoping for a change, but she would never want to stay out long. She always wanted to come back home.

So instead, I do what I can.

I play cards with her.

I sit with her.

I play music for her.

I try to keep her busy.

I spend time with her.

Because even though it is not the same, the most important thing is that I still can.

I have my moments.

There are days I miss how things used to be so deeply that it hurts. There are moments where I wish Mother’s Day could still be what it once was — the food, the laughter, the music, the dancing, the family gatherings, and the version of my mom I hold so close in my heart.

But I cannot dwell only on what has changed.

Instead, I choose to spend time with her.

I choose to be there for her.

Even through heartbreak, grief, and adjustment, it does not stop me from loving my mom and showing up for her however I can.

That is the bittersweet reality of loving someone through illness. You grieve the traditions, the laughter, the gatherings, and the version of life you once had… while still being grateful that the person you love is still here.

Even if it looks different now.

Whenever I tell my mom “Happy Mother’s Day,” she will laugh, smile, and kiss me on the cheek or forehead.

And in those small moments, I hold on tight.

Because while so much has changed, love still finds its way through.

I will always miss the Mother’s Days we used to have — the music, the food, the dancing, the family, the joy.

But now, I am learning to cherish the quieter moments too.

Because although Mother’s Day is no longer what it once was, spending whatever time I have left with my mom means more than any tradition ever could.

I just wish, sometimes, things could still be the same.