Two Mother's Days

Learning to find happiness after heartbreak

At first, this may seem like a departure from what I usually write about, but the truth is, it has quietly shaped almost every part of my life for years. Even when I wasn’t writing about it directly, it was always there beneath the surface, influencing the way I saw the world, relationships, ambition, love, and loss.

I used to think of myself very clearly as a mother. That identity defined me for most of my adult life. I’m not sure it does anymore. No, my daughter didn’t die. She is alive, healthy, successful, and thriving somewhere in the northern part of the U.S. She has built a beautiful life for herself. But five years ago, she decided she no longer wanted me to be part of it. She chose to go no contact.

For most of her life, we were extraordinarily close. My daughter was a world-class athlete from a very young age—disciplined, talented, focused in ways that always amazed me. Our lives revolved around her sport. There were early mornings, endless practices, competitions, flights, visas, hotel rooms, injuries, triumphs, disappointments, sacrifices, and dreams so big they consumed our family. We lived inside that world together for decades.

When your child competes at that level, it becomes more than a hobby or even a passion. It becomes the structure around which an entire family organizes itself. Every decision feels important. Every coach, doctor, training plan, and opportunity carries enormous weight. I wasn’t simply watching from the sidelines; I was deeply involved in helping her navigate a demanding and highly competitive world that neither of us fully understood in the beginning.

For a long time, we functioned almost like a team. I believed, perhaps naively, that the closeness forged through all those years would last forever.

Then, in her mid-twenties, everything changed. She suffered a major injury that abruptly ended her athletic career long before anyone expected it to end. One moment she was moving toward the future she had spent her entire life building, and the next, that future disappeared.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with losing the identity you built from childhood. Athletes understand this deeply. When your body can no longer do the thing that defined you, the loss reaches far beyond the physical injury. It touches your confidence, your sense of purpose, your relationships, and the story you tell yourself about who you are.

Somewhere in the aftermath of that loss, our relationship began to fracture. She blames me for parts of what happened, and in some ways, she is right. I was the parent. I made decisions I thought were best at the time. I trusted people I probably shouldn’t have trusted. I pushed when maybe I should have protected. I encouraged perseverance when rest might have been wiser.

None of it came from cruelty or ambition for myself. It came from ignorance, pressure, fear, hope, and the overwhelming responsibility of trying to guide a gifted child through an elite world that can be both beautiful and brutal. I was often in over my head and didn’t fully realize it until much later. Looking back now, there are decisions I would change instantly if I could.

I won’t tell her story for her, and I won’t try to reduce years of complicated emotions into a neat explanation. Relationships between mothers and daughters are rarely simple, especially when identity, ambition, sacrifice, and disappointment become tangled together over decades.

What I know is this: at some point, my daughter decided her life would be healthier, calmer, or happier without me in it. And after the initial shock and heartbreak, I made the difficult decision not to fight her for that choice.

Instead, I learned to love her from a distance. Quietly. Without demands. Without forcing my way back into her life. Sometimes love does not look like closeness or reconciliation. Sometimes it looks like accepting the unbearable and wanting someone else’s peace more than you want your own comfort.

That is where we are today.

So what does all of this have to do with thriving in Costa Rica? More than I ever expected. In many ways, it is a major reason I came here at all.

I know, deep down, I never would have moved so far away if my daughter were still part of my life. Many people relocate to Costa Rica while staying deeply connected to their children back home. Their kids come to visit, fall in love with the beaches, learn to slow down, and eventually think of Costa Rica as a second home.

That was never going to be our story.

My daughter is a city girl through and through. She loves cold weather, tall buildings, busy streets, and the energy of urban life. She hates heat, humidity, and beaches. Even before we stopped speaking, Costa Rica would never have been a place she embraced.

In some ways, leaving the country that held so many memories of her has been a blessing. Distance softens certain things. Here, I am not constantly driving past old gyms, familiar restaurants, airports, or places tied to another version of my life. The grief is quieter here. Less visible. More spread out beneath the rhythm of tropical rain and crashing waves.

But grief has a way of traveling with you.

One thing I never anticipated was enduring two Mother’s Days every year. In the United States, Mother’s Day arrives in May. In Costa Rica, it is celebrated on August 15th. Father’s Day falls on the same day as it does back home, but Mother’s Day comes twice for me now. Two separate reminders. Two Sundays where restaurants overflow with families, flowers fill social media feeds, and everywhere you turn someone is celebrating motherhood.

So twice a year, I disappear a little. I stay home. I avoid social media. I keep to myself and wait for the day to pass.

And yet, life continues.

The ocean is still beautiful in the mornings. The flowers still bloom in impossible colors outside my window. My partner remains endlessly patient with me, even on the hard days. My pups are still ridiculous and lovable and determined to make me laugh. There is joy here. Real joy. There is peace, beauty, friendship, sunshine, and healing.

I do thrive here. That part is true.

But somewhere in the background, always lingering just beneath the surface, is that quiet punch to the gut that never fully disappears. The ache becomes more familiar over time, but it never quite leaves.

This is also one of the reasons I write. I write about resilience, about starting over, and about building a meaningful life even after things fall apart. I write because I want people to know that it is never too late to find happiness again. By the time you reach 65, almost everyone carries regrets, losses, and sadness that can still catch you off guard and pull at your heart. Life leaves marks on all of us. But sorrow is not the whole story. There can still be joy. There can still be laughter, friendship, purpose, and peace woven into ordinary days.

For me, those moments are a little easier to find near the ocean. The waves keep rolling in no matter what has happened before. The sunsets still show up in outrageous colors. The dogs still need their walks, coffee still tastes good in the morning, and there are still new people to meet and new memories to make. Living here has taught me that healing does not mean forgetting or pretending pain never existed. It simply means making room for happiness alongside it. And these days, happiness finds me more often than I ever expected it would.

Happy Mother’s Day in advance.