Long before the high-street "tat," our ancestors were already marking this tide. The Greeks and Romans held spring festivals for the Great Mother, and many of us still feel the pull of Imbolc—the Celtic festival of Brigid. She is the goddess of the hearth and the "waking" of the earth; the first spark of life after a long winter. While my Norse beliefs don’t point to a specific "Mothering Day," the figure of Frigg looms large. As Queen of Asgard, she represents the sacredness of the home and the weaving of wyrd (destiny). She reminds us that motherhood isn’t just a role—it’s the architecture of the future.
By the 1600s, this shifted into the Christian "Mothering Sunday." It was a raw, gritty tradition for the working class. Young domestic servants were granted their one day of the year to walk miles back to their "Mother Church" and their families. They didn’t buy overpriced bouquets; they gathered wildflowers from the hedgerows because they were free, wild, and honest.
Of course, the Americans brought the "hype." The modern iteration was born in 1908 when Anna Jarvis sought to honour her mother’s Civil War service. But the story has a bite: Jarvis ended up loathing her own creation. By the 1920s, she was being arrested for protesting the very florists and card makers who had turned a sacred tribute into a profit margin. It took the efforts of Constance Penswick-Smith to pull the UK’s tradition back from the brink of extinction, reminding us that the day belongs to the hearth, not the retail park. But this didn't stop the capitalist circus from taking hold.
Today, Mother’s Day belongs to everyone—irrespective of belief or background—as a moment to stop the clock and honour the foundations we stand on.
Despite the noisy "capitalist circus" that surrounds the day, the core remains. For me, that core is built by four women—the architects of my own history and the weavers of my family’s future.
My Mother
The woman who gave birth to me, raised me, and set me on my way. She was the most important person in the first chapter of my life. Like any long road, we’ve had our ups and downs, our sharp turns and our smooth paths, but we are settled now. Today, she’s living out her retirement with my Dad and their two dogs. I dropped off the flowers and the obligatory box of Maltesers (her favourite) on Friday, clearing the decks so I can help my daughters honour their own mother today.
My Beloved Morticia
Then there is the mother to my girls. She was born for this role. She has navigated every one of life’s crises with a bravery and dignity that I can only admire. She gave our daughters the freedom to become exactly who they wanted to be, always putting their needs before her own—a selflessness she still carries now that they are grown. She is the steady flame at our hearth.
My Mother-in-Law
An honourable mention must go to Morticia’s mother. Over the years, she has become a true friend to her daughter. It has been a rough year for her, but she has faced every challenge with a quiet, stubborn courage that commands respect.
The Newest Branch
Finally, there is the newest mother in our family: my youngest daughter. She is now the proud mother of our wonderful grandson, and watching her navigate the chaos of a mischievous toddler is a reminder of where this cycle begins anew. The lineage continues.
I honour them all today. My advice to you is to ignore the junk in the shops and look to the people. If you can, visit your mum. If you can’t, call her. And if she is no longer walking this earth, take a quiet moment to remember her and the foundation she built for you.
Happy Mother’s Day.
While I honour the foundations laid by those who came before—the spirit of the "Urban Viking" lives on in my webcomic, Northman. You’ll find those same themes of lineage, grit, and endurance woven into the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.
You can read the latest chapter here:
In Sweden, Mother's Day is celebrated on the last Sunday in May. It wasn't introduced here until 1919, and it took several decades more for the day to be widely recognized. From my childhood I remember it as the one day of the year that my dad made breakfast. He usually managed to even burn the toast; and my mum didn't like to eat in bed anyway, so I'm not sure how much she really appreciated the effort... ;)
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