A Mother's Day Conversation With the Dead Mom's Club

Alexandra Pflaumer

May 8, 2025

You read that right. The DMC, as we affectionately call it, requires the worst entry fee—and has opened the door to deep, authentic connection in grief for the lovely founding members. And hey, we can be a pretty fun group, too.

How Grief Brought Us Together

Let me tell you how I met Mimi and Callie.

In January 2020, a trip to the hospital with what we thought was diverticulitis revealed that my mom had Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Within three weeks, she was diagnosed, survived surgery, began chemo, and passed away. During her hospital stay, my dad met another man in the ICU waiting room at a hospital in Minneapolis, MN—they bonded over the Green Bay Packers. As it turns out, this man also had a wife in the ICU with leukemia. More conversation revealed another uncanny connection: they both had daughters with young kids living in Apex, NC.

I decided to post a sort of "missed connections" message in a local Facebook moms group. That message led me to Callie, who lived just seven minutes away. Tragically, both of our moms passed away eight days apart. As we connected through our grief, Callie said, "You need to meet my friend Mimi. I met her at the kids' school—she lost her mom suddenly like we did, and in the same month." Sure enough, all three of our moms died within 14 days of each other, all due to blood-related complications. And just like that, a trauma bond was born.

We Call It the DMC

In those early years, we held each other through every "first" without our moms: births, birthdays, holidays, career changes, and everyday moments. The friendship that grew among us felt like something ancient and unshakeable. Like mountains forming in the deepest parts of the ocean, we lifted each other up from the depths of our grief. We are friends. We are confidants. We are sisters. Forever.

And so we formed the DMC. People often raise their eyebrows when we mention our exclusive little club. We always welcome rebranding suggestions, but none have stuck. We don’t mind the name. In fact, we like to think that our moms would’ve hit it off, too. Sometimes we say our friendship was the last playdate they arranged for us.

Mother’s Day, After Loss

One of the most emotionally layered times for us is Mother’s Day. Grief is as unique as a fingerprint, and this holiday brings a sharp contrast: joy in our own motherhood and sorrow for the absence of the women who mothered us. To be a motherless daughter who is now a mother herself—so proud of the family she’s building and still aching to share these moments with her mom.

Well, what better way to spend Mother’s Day than with the only women who get it? Over the years, we’ve made space for each other—through Mother’s Day teas, casual backyard cookouts, or just an unspoken understanding. We laugh, cry, and mother in the likeness of our mothers’ love.

Reflections from Callie and Mimi

This year, I am sharing a bit of our collective heart. I asked Mimi and Callie to reflect on what Mother’s Day has meant for them since their mothers died. Here’s what they shared—

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Callie

A part of me thinks my body and brain know this day is coming. I start to feel sad, longing for connection with my mom. I hear a song on the radio, or a cardinal lands nearby, and I feel her presence. I miss her hugs. Her voice. Her early morning phone calls. There’s an emptiness that comes with this holiday, one that can’t be filled.

My body feels heavier leading up to Mother’s Day—like I’m carrying extra weight. But I try to focus on what my mom would want: self-care, connection. I send flowers to her best friend. I sit with the sadness, and I celebrate her.

To someone facing their first Mother’s Day without their mom, I’d say: It’s okay to feel everything. This is a rollercoaster, and every feeling is valid. Find what helps you feel connected to your mom, and don’t go it alone.

The DMC? It’s been a spiritual anchor. These women have helped me explore my beliefs and create space to process the loss in my own way.

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Mimi

Spring is beautiful, but it’s also nostalgic. Mother’s Day brings a wave of emotion. I count the years. I see blooming flowers and I think of her—she adored them. A cardinal perched nearby is a quiet comfort. There are always tears, but there are also smiles for how deeply I loved her.

I’m not sure if I change physically, but I do find myself drawn more to culture and tradition. It’s a time to reconnect.

To someone newly grieving: The first year is the hardest. It feels surreal—like she’s just away for a while. But in time, you find ways to honor her. You keep her alive through the things she loved. Let the grief come and always come back to the love.

The DMC? It’s a sisterhood I never knew I needed. We share something unspoken. We grieve together. Remember together. We became family through loss.

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A Quiet Sisterhood, A Shared Strength

We didn’t choose this club. But in it, we’ve found each other. We’ve found space to remember, to grieve, and to mother in the shadows and light of the women who raised us.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone carrying a quiet ache this weekend. You are not alone.

Written by Alexandra Pflaumer, founder of Whole Person Consulting. As a leadership coach and grief educator, she supports individuals and organizations in navigating loss with compassion and courage.