Love That Crosses Oceans

No matter how many birthdays you’ve had, there’s something about your mum that still makes you feel five again. That reliable all-wise voice on the end of the line. The smell of her cooking that feels like safety itself.

At 42, I became a mum. Late, perhaps, by some standards, however I was just incredibly thankful for my little miracle to finally arrive. My own parents flew over from New Zealand to be here for the birth of my son. We had our first three-generation Mother’s Day together: me, my baby boy, and the woman who had given so much of herself to raise me. She stayed for three months, holding me up through the fog of newborn life. She was there when I stumbled through sleep deprivation, unsure of who I even was anymore. She never judged—just helped. Quietly. Gently. Lovingly.

A year later, cancer arrived. Colon cancer. And she came again to stay with my little family for three months. Without question. She stood by me through surgery and the start of chemotherapy, all while caring for my toddler like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s what mums do—they show up. Again and again.

This year, though, I won’t get to spend Mother’s Day with her. She’s back in New Zealand, caring for my dad, who is battling lung cancer. And my wonderful mother-in-law is caring for my father-in-law, who’s also undergoing radiation for cancer.

These women are my strength, my blueprint. Their love runs deeper than any diagnosis, any hardship, any distance. A mother’s love doesn’t end—it just finds new ways to keep giving.

To every mum, whether you’re wiping noses, holding hands through heartbreak, or offering quiet strength in the background, Happy Mother’s Day for Sunday.

May your coffee be hot, your toddler’s tantrum be brief, and your partner elbow-deep in dishes. You’ve earned it.

Amanda

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Mother's Day 2024 in Mackay, two weeks after receiving my cancer diagnosis

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