An Open Letter on Mother’s Day: For the Ones We Still Have, and the Ones We’ve Lost

I’ve never been one to buy into the hype of major holidays—especially those that feel heavily commercialized. Valentine’s Day? Meh. Halloween? Fun, but fleeting. Mother's Day? Well… maybe that’s the exception. That, and Christmas.

Because here’s the thing: None of us would be here without our mothers. Whether or not we’re close to them, whether or not we even know them, the truth is that they are the reason we exist. And for that alone, this day carries weight—capitalism aside.

But I want to be sensitive too. I know today isn’t joyful for everyone. Some of you are reading this without your mom here to call, text, or hug. Some of you have strained relationships that are still painful. Some never knew their mother at all. If that’s you—my heart is with you. This day can feel alienating, even cruel. You’re not alone in that.

For me, Mother’s Day has always come with complexity. Growing up, my relationship with my mom was… hard. I was the middle child—and the only girl—of three, and expectations on me were very different than those for my brothers. We argued. A lot. I never quite understood why she was so strict, why her words could cut so deep, or why I felt like I had to work so much harder to earn her approval.

But age has a funny way of peeling back the layers. With time and reflection, I came to see that so much of what I perceived as hardness was actually her form of protection. My mom grew up fast—left her home country at a young age to care for others, had to learn self-reliance before she ever had a chance to just be a kid. That kind of upbringing leaves marks. She carried those lessons into motherhood, trying to shield me from the same heartbreaks she had endured. Her strength, I realized, was rooted in survival—and fierce love.

There’s a deeper cultural and generational story here, one I’ll save for another time. But what I will say now is this: We often forget that as we get older, our parents do too. Time doesn’t slow down just because we’re busy, stubborn, or caught up in our own lives. And one day, the chance to ask questions, to apologize, to reconnect—it’s gone.

I consider myself incredibly lucky that my mom is still here. That I can pick up the phone and call her when I need to vent, laugh, cry, or just hear her voice. We still don’t agree on everything—FAR FROM IT —but I know with certainty that she wants what’s best for me. She is my anchor, my sounding board, and my reminder of where I come from.

So today, I’m thinking of all the moms. The ones who are present. The ones who are no longer here. The ones who mothered us in unconventional ways. And the ones we may struggle to understand.

And I’m speaking especially to those of you who do still have someone you call “Mom”:
Don’t take her for granted.
Put your ego aside. Call her. Text her. Ask her how she’s doing. Let her know you’re thinking of her—because I promise you, she’s thinking about you far more than you know. And one day, that phone call won’t be possible. Don’t wait until it’s too late.

This is my open letter to my mom:

Thank you—for every sleepless night, for every worry you’ve ever carried about me, for doing the best you could with what you had. Thank you for raising me, for loving me in your way, for being the foundation I didn’t always see, but that was always there.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. - My Linh

Mama Pham, 2025