Mother’s Day is often about cards and flowers, but for some mothers, it means much more. Here, in their own words, three women living with serious health conditions share what Mother’s Day means to them.
Michelle Jenkins, 50, Stonehaven
Mother’s Day has always been special in our family, but since my diagnosis, it’s taken on a deeper meaning.
I was told I had Hodgkin lymphoma in January 2022, and life hasn’t been the same since. The chemotherapy was brutal, and even though I’m in remission now, I’m still in recovery.
I don’t take anything for granted anymore — especially time with the people I love.
I’m lucky to have a close-knit family. My husband, Paul, and our four children — Chelsea, Megan, Mason, and Ethan — are my world.
That world has grown over the past few years to include my three gorgeous grandchildren, Harper, Emily and Finlay.
They’re always around, popping in and out, making sure I’m okay. We’re not big on presents; we’ve never really been. It’s never been about gifts, but about time. Being together is what matters.
That’s why, when I asked for something this year, it felt a bit strange.
Normally, I don’t ask for anything, but I mentioned in our family chat that I’d love an olive tree for the garden.
It’s one of those things I wouldn’t buy for myself, but it would bring me so much joy. I have one already, and there’s something about them — their resilience, their quiet strength. I suppose that speaks to me now in a way it didn’t before.
This Mother’s Day, we’ll be at Chelsea’s house, all of us together — four kids, their partners, the grandchildren. Eleven of us in total.
It’s chaotic, but that’s just normal for us. There will be food, a couple of drinks, and plenty of laughter. It’ll be just like any other Sunday, really. But these ordinary moments mean so much more now.
Since my diagnosis, I think we’ve all realised how precious time is. I’ve always been close with my kids, but I feel like we’re even closer now.
We make the most of every occasion, no matter how small. Just last weekend, we had a ‘Rod Stewart party’, because why not? Life is unpredictable. You never know what’s around the corner, so you take every excuse to celebrate.
There’s a quiet shift in the way we approach things now. When you go through something like cancer, the milestones — birthdays, holidays, even just a normal Saturday — feel heavier, more significant.
This year marks two years in remission for me, which is a huge step. The first two years are when the risk of it coming back is highest. Every clear scan is a weight lifted.
Mother’s Day is just another chance to be together, to make the effort, to hold onto these moments. I know my daughters will fuss over me, and the boys will probably forget until the last minute—but that’s just how they are. At the end of the day, we’ll all be there, and that’s all I really want.
And if an olive tree appears, well, that’ll be a lovely bonus.
Rachel Hives, 34, Drumnadrochit
Mother’s Day hasn’t always been easy for me. A few years ago, I spent it in hospital, alone, unable to see my children because of Covid restrictions. I remember sitting there, crying, devastated that I couldn’t be with them.
That experience made me realise just how much these moments matter. Now, when we are together, just the three of us, it means a million times more than what it did before.
I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) when I was 19.
Over the years, I’ve dealt with paralysis, dissociative seizures, muscle spasms, and problems with my vision, speech, and coordination.
Some days, I can move and train like an athlete. Other days, my body shuts down, and I need a wheelchair.
There’s no predicting it. But through all of it, I’ve kept pushing forward — because I have two little reasons to. Hamish, who’s eight, and Isla, who’s five.
This Mother’s Day will be special. We’re planning something simple — probably heading up a local hill with the dog for a picnic, just the three of us.
We might stop by a little place called Quila Cridhe for cake and to look at the Highland cows. Nothing fancy, but it’ll be perfect.
We have a tradition where we plant something in the garden every Mother’s Day, something that comes back year after year.
Hamish is determined to make me breakfast in bed. I’m not sure how that will go — he’s only eight, and the chances of him waking up before me are slim.
But he’s insistent. It’ll probably be toast with jam, and I’ll eat it happily, even if it’s half-burnt.
Since my diagnosis, I’ve had to fight for everything.
Last year, I competed in the Adaptive CrossFit Games in San Antonio, Texas, ranking seventh in the world in my category. I trained through exhaustion and through my body failing me time and time again.
There were moments when I couldn’t walk, when my legs completely stopped working, but I kept going. I had to.
Because this is about more than sport — it’s about proving to myself and to my kids that I can still do hard things.
This year, I’m pushing even harder to qualify again, though this time the final is in Las Vegas.
The training is relentless, and my body doesn’t always cooperate.
But I think about Hamish and Isla and how I want them to see their mum as strong, as someone who never backs down.
Karen Cox, 58, Lossiemouth
I was diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome years ago, which means chronic pain and a body that doesn’t quite work the way it should. I also have fibromyalgia, so fatigue and widespread pain are part of my everyday life.
Despite that, I work hard to remain as active as possible. I fundraise as much as possible and in July I cycled up Cairngorm, the sixth-highest mountain in the UK on an electric ICEtrike – just one of my many e-bike adventures.
But not long after that, just when I thought I had enough on my plate, I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer.
It was picked up on a routine mammogram — pure luck, really. The tumour was only 15mm, so I had a lumpectomy, followed by four rounds of chemotherapy.
Now, I’m waiting for radiotherapy, but thanks to fainting and breaking my clavicle, that’s been delayed. It’s been a bit of a journey.
When they told me I had cancer, my first thought wasn’t for myself — it was for my three adult children, Chris McNeill, Charlotte Jennings and Natalie Cox.
I lost my cousin to breast cancer in 2017, and then my aunt — her mum — in 2022. So, when I got my diagnosis, I knew exactly what it could mean.
Telling my children was the hardest part, but they handled it the way they always have my health conditions — with love, humour and an unwavering belief that I would get through it.
My children grew up as young carers, supporting me through my health struggles. It wasn’t an easy childhood, but they never complained.
And now, as adults, they’re still there, checking in, stepping up when I need them. My son climbed Ben Rinnes with me when I was determined to get up there on my e-bike and we also took part in the 100-kilometre ‘hike and bike’ event Cairngorm to Coast together.
My daughter joins me for sea swimming — even on Christmas Day, in Santa hats.
They encourage me, they push me, and they laugh at the ridiculous situations I end up in. They’re proud of me, and that means the world.
Mother’s Day, to me, isn’t about presents. It never has been. When they were little, all I ever asked for was a tidy bedroom and no arguments. I’m still waiting.
These days, it’s about time together, about celebrating the fact that we still have each other. This year, we might not be together on the day itself, but we’ll find a way to make up for it—maybe a trip to Edinburgh, a meal out, just being in the same room. That’s what matters.
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