What Mother’s Day Taught Me About Inclusion, Belonging, and the Stories We Don’t Always See

Each year, Mother’s Day appears everywhere. Shops fill with flowers and cards, adverts play repeatedly, and inboxes overflow. It’s presented as a universal moment of joy and gratitude. For many people, it is. For many others, it isn’t.

Inclusive practice isn’t only about accessible buildings or policies. It’s also about how we reflect real lives, including the complex, messy, and unseen ones. 

This is a personal story, but it’s also a reflection on how businesses and brands shape the world around us, and the role we all play in making people feel like they belong.

My reality didn’t match the picture.

My mother left when I was six years old. I was raised by a young single father, with the help of my wider family. I don’t share this for sympathy. I share it because it shaped me. From a young age, people didn’t just notice the absence. they questioned it.

The silence around it was heavy, and when people did speak, it often came through pity, confusion, or judgment.

Growing up disabled already placed me under a spotlight. Add in the fact that I didn’t have a mother, and I often felt like an anomaly. I now understand how deeply the charity model and medical model of disability were working in the background. 

These narratives suggest that disabled people are burdens, that we are the thing someone else has to “cope with.” I wonder if that influenced how my mother saw her role. I wonder if that made it easier or indeed harder for her to leave.

That’s not something I’ll ever fully know. I am not sure I need to know. What I do know is that for years, I internalised that absence. I believed it must have meant something was wrong with me.

Mother’s Day didn’t feel like a celebration.

I used to wait for a knock at the door. Part of me hoped that if she came back, it would mean I mattered. That I was enough. These days, I no longer hope for the knock. In truth, I dread it. I am building a life I’m proud of. 

One that doesn’t depend on her return. That doesn’t mean the sadness goes away. It means I’ve found other ways to make sense of it.

Mother’s Day always felt complicated. I didn’t want to talk about it, because I didn’t want to be someone’s story of resilience. I didn’t want to become a learning moment. I would avoid conversations, avoid questions, and avoid the emotional pressure to celebrate something I didn’t have.

The role brands play in social stories.

Companies don’t just reflect culture, they help create it. When every message, email, and campaign assumes that everyone is buying gifts for a loving mother, it reinforces a story that leaves people out. That includes people like me, but also people grieving, people estranged, people trying to become parents, or those navigating loss in private.

Some brands have made progress. The option to opt out of Mother’s Day emails is becoming more common.

These are thoughtful, meaningful steps. They acknowledge the emotional impact these campaigns can have. Still, hundreds of messages arrive, often weeks in advance, without considering what they might bring up. Those of us who have done the work to heal can still feel sharp.

There is an opportunity here. Businesses can lead by example. They can create space for stories that don’t fit the mould. They can acknowledge that not everyone’s experience is joyful. They can help set new norms that are more honest, inclusive, and human.

Inclusive practice includes emotional safety.

This conversation goes beyond marketing. Inclusive workplaces must also think about the emotional and social weight of these celebration dates. When people feel excluded from dominant narratives, it impacts how they show up at work. It affects confidence, engagement, and trust.

Not everyone will want to talk about their experiences, and that’s okay. What matters is that people feel safe if they choose to. People should not have to perform emotional labour to be seen.

They should not have to justify why they need space or why certain days are hard. Thoughtful planning and leadership can make a real difference.

This includes permitting people to step back. It also includes encouraging teams to reflect on how messages and events might land.

Sometimes a quiet, compassionate pause is the most inclusive thing you can offer.

What I’ve learned from my story

These experiences shaped how I see myself. They still show up in unexpected ways. I’ve struggled with imposter syndrome, constantly working to prove my value. I’ve held myself back from public roles, worried that visibility might draw attention I wasn’t ready for. I’ve also pushed myself to succeed, so I'd feel prepared if the knock ever came.

These feelings are real. They’re also not the whole story.

Over time, I’ve become more open. I’ve started to mark Mother’s Day in ways that feel right to me. I celebrate the people who raised me for example my nan, auntie, and chosen family.

Image ID: Rox with their nan next to article title on purple background

I reflect with others who have complex feelings. I find joy in being a dog mum. I remind myself that I am whole.

There’s privilege in being surrounded by people who showed up for me. I don’t take that lightly. I’ve also learned to be my role model. That includes recognising that I can still be shaped by someone who wasn’t there, by doing things differently, making space, and choosing connection.

What I hope brands and people will reflect on

Celebration dates carry weight. They bring up joy, sadness, memory, and longing. When we plan events or campaigns, we need to consider that.

Here’s what I’d love to see more of:

• Early, clear opt-outs for sensitive dates

• Campaigns that reflect a variety of stories and family structures

• Managers who create space for honest conversations

• Leadership that makes room for stepping back or sitting things out

• A recognition that inclusion isn’t seasonal, it’s cultural.

I want to see brands that truly see the people they serve. Not just the ones who buy the card or the flowers, but the ones who quietly look away. The ones who pause. The ones who carry stories they haven’t told yet.

That’s the kind of inclusion that matters.

Final thoughts

This is only one part of my story. I’ll never know how it ends until it ends. Until then, I continue to reflect. I continue to grow. I continue to hold space for what I had, what I didn’t have, and who I’ve become.

The photo I’ve used for this piece is not of my mother, it’s my nan. I honour her, and the family members I’m currently grieving. Their presence helped shape who I am, even if they never knew it. I’m lucky to have had them. That doesn’t erase the loss, but it helps me make sense of it.

I see you if you’re reading this and relating in any way.

If you’re a brand or organisation looking to approach celebration dates with more care and inclusivity, I’d be happy to support you.

From reviewing campaigns to facilitating conversations, I offer guidance grounded in lived experience and inclusive practice. Feel free to get in touch—this work matters, and it can make a real difference.

If this article helped you feel less alone, it’s already done something good.

Thank you for reading.

Original LinkedIn Post