The video features three original interviewees from Hope Edelman's Motherless Daughters project sharing reflections on thirty years of living without a mother. Julie Myers recounts how time feels strange, describing the evolution of her life, the pain and joy she experiences, and the vital community she found through Hope Edelman's network—from early New York gatherings to online support. An unnamed speaker (Speaker B) reflects on 34 years of motherless life, describing personal milestones, the lingering questions about her mother's expectations, and how she has transformed grief into a source of strength, redefining motherhood and honoring her mother's legacy. Rita, who was interviewed for the original book, speaks about losing her mother at 16, how her mother's activism in civil‑rights and peace movements shapes her own activism at age 75, and how she carries her mother's legacy rather than celebrating Mother’s Day. Across the three narratives, themes of time’s oddity, community support, personal resilience, legacy, and activism emerge, illustrating how the Motherless Daughters community has provided hope and connection for those navigating lifelong grief.
Chapters
Hi, my name is Julie Myers, and my mother, Dory Davidson, passed away in 1989. I'm going to take a tiny bit of your time to talk about the passage of time and Motherless Daughters' 30th anniversary. In a nutshell, time is weird. I can honestly say I don't resemble, and I doubt you could figure out which daughter I am in the Motherless Daughters book. But I was her, and I am me, and I still miss my mom every single day. Had you told me over 30 years ago when I first met Hope that I would be living in suburbia with 2 kids and a wonderful husband, I would not have believed you. But I repeat, time is weird. Had you told me when I met a friend's elderly great-grandmother over 30 years ago, right after my mom's death, And that this old woman grabbed me and hugged me and sobbed and said, you're never going to get over this and it never gets any better. And I— that I not only remember meeting the woman, but that it feels like yesterday. And some days I totally get what you were saying. It's because time is weird. Had you ever told me I would look forward to Mother's Day because my husband and my girls would make it so very special? Again, I would have had, had you get your head examined, because time is weird. Had you told me that recently, I would turn to my husband and say to him that I'm actively dreading the day that I knew him longer than I knew my mom, because that would push her away even further, only for him to look at me strangely and say, Julie, I've known you about half a decade longer than you knew your mom. I wouldn't have believed you. I'm as weird. So there are always going to be dark days, but they're going to be bright ones, and there are going to be days of joy. And in all cases, the joyful days and the painful days will pass. However, in my darkest hours and also my happiest ones, I found community, and it wasn't in a club, a synagogue, a sorority. It wasn't at a local pub or on the bowling team. I found it right here, right where you are, and you have it too. Look around, really stop looking at me. Look all around you, and if you're on the Zoom, look in the comments. We've all been through hell, but together we found hope, and I mean that both as the person and the noun. I met Hope and the other interviewees over 30 years ago. This community, each of you, those of whom I met and those of whom I have not Yep, Matt, have been my core. First in the 1990s at Hope's New York apartment, then a few years later in SoHo at the first Motto of Stars meetings, then through newsletters, and then on the internet, and then on social media, and then on the phone calls. We are here for you. We are here for each other. I lost my mom, but I found Hope, and I could not have survived this journey without all of you. Thank you for being there for me. thank you for being there for one another. Hold on tight. Time is weird, and we need one another on this journey. Love to you all, and thank you, Hope.
Ladies and motherless daughters, it's both poignant and empowering to share in the unique bond we share as those who have lost our mothers. For 34 years, I've navigated the journey of being a motherless daughter, facing its challenges, celebrating its triumphs, and ultimately embracing its profound impact in my life. In the midst of milestones like starting my own business, purchasing my first home, and solely embracing motherhood through adoption, I've often found myself longing for my mother's presence, wondering what she would think or say. Did I meet her expectations? Am I succeeding as a mother? Myself? Those questions haunted me for years, driving me to therapy as I sought clarity and closure. Yet in that journey, I came to a profound realization. While I can never replace my mother's presence or hear her approval directly, her spirit lives on within me. I carry her legacy in my hands, my expressions, and even in the less intangible aspects of who I am. Through introspection and growth, I've learned to redefine what it means to honor my mother and her memory. I've inherited her traditions, but I've also adapted and modernized them to fit the woman I've become. In doing so, I've discovered a newfound confidence in my own abilities as a mother, a woman, a sister, and a friend. Today, I am proud to share my story, not as a woman defined by loss, but as one who has found strength and resilience in the face of it. Together, we carry forward the legacies of our mothers, shaping them into something uniquely our own. And in that transformation, we honor not just their memory, but the women we've become. Thank you.
30 years ago, I was interviewed by Hope for Motherless Daughters. I appear as Rita in the book, a 45-year-old still struggling to grieve my mother's death. She died at age 50 years old when I was just 16 years old. Her death was 59 years ago, and the tears come much easier now, along with the good memories. My family thought Mother's Day Was created to sell more Hallmark cards. Instead of celebrating her this day, I try to carry on her legacy. She was an activist in the civil rights movement and for peace. I try to live like her, and at the age of 75, I join with other activists, both young and old, in the streets chanting. Ceasefire now, as the tears from my mother continue to flow.
Hi, my name is Amy Lynn, and I am one of the interviewees for the original Motherless Daughters book. I found my way to Hope Edelman through an ad in the Village Voice. in New York City. I don't remember the year. I think it was 1992. It might've been 1993. Hope had posted in the back pages of the Village Voice, are you a motherless daughter? Did you survive mother loss? Have you had mother loss? I don't remember the exact quote, but I contacted her by phone and we sat down at a cafe in the Village on Bleecker Street and we talked and talked and talked. And I became Kristen in the book. So as you're reading the book, if you hear about a Kristen, that would be me. Um, I, I found Hope's story, uh, to be very similar to mine, and I really appreciated, um, being a part of the book and part of the sort of revolution that I think her book created in helping women. I don't believe that there was anything before her book specific to women, which is why I think it resonated so Well, for all the women who have found their way to Hope's work, and probably for most of the women who are in the book as well. I was 17 when my mom passed, and I was 23, I think, when I met Hope. My mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was 15 and died when I was a junior in high school, the morning after my junior prom. She passed away from ovarian cancer. I'm now a mom of twins, a very proud mom, and I incorporate my mom into my everyday life as much as I can. There is a picture of her holding me when I was a tiny kiddo, and here is a picture of her that's on my altar that I cherish because she was not sick at this point and doing what she loved, which was reading in the sun, lounging. On her partner's, my stepfather's sailboat. Anyway, that's my story. Hope's work just has given me community and understanding and hope for survival through the grief. That's what I have to say. I wish I could be there with you all, and I hope that it's a wonderful and very healing Event for everybody. Thanks for being part of this community. It means a lot.
