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Where the Light Gets In: A Love Letter to Mothers in the Margins


I’ve always had something of a conflicted relationship with Mother’s Day.


Pam, my mother, died of cancer when I was just three years old. She was only thirty. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to make sense of her absence, and what it means to celebrate a day like this when the very word mother feels like both a wound and a whisper. For someone who prides himself on articulating ideas and giving voice to things that often go unsaid, I must confess—when it comes to her, my speech still feels frozen in the body of that three-year-old child. It’s hard to find words for a love you only knew in its earliest bloom.


And yet, maybe that’s why I’ve always had a deep reverence—bordering on holy—for those who mother. For the act of mothering itself. There may very well be no more important calling in the world than motherhood, and none that is likewise so desperately needed.


Today, as brunches are served and flowers are wrapped in pastel bows, I want us to turn our gaze toward a group of mothers who rarely find themselves in the spotlight: the women living in poverty across this country, who still—somehow—keep showing up for their kids.


These are the quiet warriors. The ones who make miracles out of food stamps, turning $20 into dinners that stretch and bend like elastic. The ones who go hungry so their kids don’t have to, who say “I’m not hungry” with a forced smile and an empty stomach. The ones who work two or three jobs and still make it to parent-teacher conferences, still manage to sit at the edge of the bed and ask, “How was your day?” even when theirs was filled with struggle.


These women are doing more with less—less money, less support, less rest—than most of us could ever fathom. They hold together families and futures with the frayed threads of society’s leftovers. They navigate systems that were not built for them—systems that often punish them for being poor—and they do it with a grace that can only be described as sacred.


Poverty doesn’t just take dollars—it tries to steal dignity. But these mothers? They don’t let it. They find ways to create joy in scarcity, to offer comfort even when they themselves are weary. They raise children on grit, on love, on bedtime stories told by flashlight when the power’s out. They braid resilience into their daughters’ hair and tuck hope into their sons’ pockets.


These mothers are the backbone of neighborhoods, the soul of communities, and often the last line of defense against despair. They are unshakable. Unbreakable. And far too often, unseen.


So this Mother’s Day, if you’re lighting a candle, light one for them. If you’re saying a prayer, say it for them. If you’re donating, organizing, voting—do it with them in mind. Celebrate them not out of pity, but out of the deepest kind of reverence.


To every mother living in poverty who continues to rise—who shows up in the face of exhaustion, injustice, and invisibility: we see you. We honor you. We thank you. You are not forgotten. You are not alone.


And to the mother I never got to know: I hope you’d be proud of how much I’ve come to love and respect the power of your calling. This one’s for you, too.


Happy Mother’s Day to the quiet warriors. May the world rise to meet your courage.


 
 
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