I cut my grass on Mother’s Day.
And I cut it again today.
To be fair—I actually like cutting grass. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Therapeutic, even. It makes me feel like I’m doing something that’s just for me, without needing anybody.
But while I was out there with my little electric weed eater, something hit me. I mean, really hit me. I started thinking about everything I do—how much I give—and how little I feel seen. And the next thing I knew, I was standing there crying in the yard, weeds half-cut and feelings all over the place.
Where did I go wrong?
Not with the grass. With my kids.
I looked around and realized… not one of them even offered to help. Not a “you good, Ma?” Not a “let me do that for you.” Just nothing.
And it’s not that I expect the world—I just expect something. A little appreciation. A little effort. A little sign that I’m not invisible.
Growing up, I was the grateful kid. Always tried to be the most helpful. The sweetest. Not because I had to—because I wanted to. Deep down, I probably thought I had to earn love. But still, I’d be outside with my mama while she worked in the yard. I remember asking, “Can I get wet today?” and if she said yes, I’d go grab my swimsuit and let her spray me down with the water hose like I was at Blue Bayou. No fancy pool, just joy.
That was our bonding time.
Now I’m looking at my own kids… and it’s not that they’re bad. They’re just so different. So unlike me. So… disconnected. And it hurts.
Did I spoil my kids too much?
Did I give so much that I forgot to teach gratitude?
Did I make their lives easier so they wouldn’t have to be like me… and now I wish they were more like me?
I had to stop what I was doing—mid-yard—to come write this. Because it got that heavy. I’m talking real tears. The kind you try to wipe away fast when your cousin pull up so you can play it off like it’s just allergies.
But it wasn’t allergies. It was grief.
Not because someone died—but because the love I poured out… I don’t feel it coming back.
Have you ever felt like this? Like you gave your all and still felt unseen? If you’ve been there—or are there now—I’d love to hear from you. Because this ain’t about bashing my kids. This is about saving my peace. And if I’m not alone in this feeling, maybe there’s still hope.
