There's forty women in the room, not twenty
For thirty years, women who lost their mothers in childhood or adolescence have been quietly finding one another — first through a book, then through retreats held on mountainsides and in shared meals and tears. What Hope Edelman built from her own seventeen-year-old grief is not merely a support network but a living argument that loss does not have to be carried alone, and that the mothers who are gone are still, in some sense, present in the daughters they shaped. These gatherings remind us that grief is not a problem to be solved but a relationship to be continued — and that community may be one of the oldest medicines we have.
- Women who lost their mothers before age twenty-one carry a double grief: mourning both the presence they once had and the guidance they were never given.
- For many, the wound reopens at life's thresholds — a marriage, a diagnosis, or the year they reach the exact age their mother was when she died.
- Hope Edelman's 1994 bestseller cracked open a silence, and the retreats she began in 2016 have since drawn over five hundred women who finally sit in rooms where no explanation is required.
- Therapists describe what happens at these gatherings in neurological terms — co-regulation, the settling of nervous systems in one another's presence — suggesting the healing is as physical as it is emotional.
- Women who spent decades without meeting a single person who shared their story are now finding, in each other's faces, the unmistakable reflection of the mothers they lost.
On a mountaintop in Northern California, women who lost their mothers before the age of twenty-one gathered to do something most had never done: sit in a room full of people who understood, without explanation, what it meant to grow up without a mother. They call themselves motherless daughters, and for three decades, they have been finding each other.
Hope Edelman was seventeen when her mother died. In the years that followed, she searched for stories that might help her make sense of the loss, and when she began interviewing other women with similar experiences, she found their stories were strikingly alike. Her 1994 book became a bestseller and, more importantly, a lifeline. Since the first retreat in 2016, more than five hundred women have gathered at places like Mount Madonna in Watsonville — days filled with conversation, yoga, shared meals, tears, and laughter. Edelman frames it this way: there may be twenty women who came, but there are forty women in the room, because the mothers are present too.
The women who attend often arrive at turning points. Shaina was fourteen when her mother died at forty-seven; this year, she turns forty-seven herself. Standing at that threshold, she felt like a little girl still wanting to ask her mother how to navigate the world. Jennie Zhao had spent her whole life hearing how much she resembled her mother but had never met another person who lost their mother to suicide as a child — until she found this community, and returned for a third retreat.
What these women grieve is not only what they had but what they never got: a mother's voice as they aged, her advice, her presence at their own milestones. Angela Schellenberg, a therapist and co-facilitator, describes early maternal loss as attachment trauma — a break in the bond that leaves the brain searching for someone who is not there. But something measurable shifts when these women gather. Co-regulation, she explains, is a neurological phenomenon in which nervous systems settle in each other's presence. The retreats draw women from their twenties to their eighties; one woman had not spoken about her mother for forty years before she found this space.
What many participants notice most is the reflection they see in one another — the mothers visible in the daughters, in their accomplishments, in who they have become. Edelman, now decades into this work, holds both truths at once: grief and celebration are not opposites. We can mourn an absence and honor a life at the same time. Both of those things, she says, can be true.
On a mountaintop in Northern California, a group of women gathered to do something most of them had never done before: sit in a room full of people who understood, without explanation, what it meant to grow up without a mother. These women were all twenty-one or younger when their mothers died—some to cancer, some to suicide, some to sudden illness. They call themselves motherless daughters, and for three decades now, they have been finding each other.
Hope Edelman was seventeen when her mother died in 1981, at forty-two. Her mother had been the emotional anchor of the family, and in the years that followed, Edelman searched for stories that might help her make sense of the loss. When she began interviewing other women who had experienced something similar, she noticed a pattern: their stories were strikingly alike. In 1994, she published "Motherless Daughters: The Legacy of Loss," a book that became an instant bestseller and, more importantly, a lifeline for thousands of women who had felt alone in their grief.
What started as a book has become something larger. Since the first retreat in 2016, more than five hundred women have attended gatherings across the country. At these retreats—held at places like Mount Madonna in Watsonville—the days are filled with conversation, yoga, shared meals, and tears. But there is also laughter. One woman spoke about her mother's habit of stealing coworkers' belongings and leaving ransom notes. Another described the sound of her mother's voice, which she could no longer quite remember. Edelman has a way of framing these moments: "We say at every retreat, there may be twenty women who came, but there's forty women in the room. It's a way to reaffirm that these aren't just women who died; they're also women who lived, and many of them lived joyously."
The women who come to these retreats often arrive at turning points—a health crisis, marriage, motherhood, or the year they turn the age their mother was when she died. Jennie Zhao had spent her whole life hearing how much she resembled her mother, but she had never met another person who had lost their mother to suicide as a child until she found this community. She is now attending her third retreat. Shaina was fourteen when her mother died at forty-seven; this year, she turns forty-seven herself. Standing at that threshold, she found herself in what she calls uncharted territory, a little girl inside her still wanting to ask her mother how to navigate the world.
What these women describe is not just emotional pain but a particular kind of loss—the loss of both what they had and what they never had. If your mother dies when she is old, you grieve what you knew. If she dies when you are young, you grieve what you never got to know: her voice as you aged, her advice, her presence at your own milestones. Shaina speaks of a deep longing to call her mother, to ask her questions about her body, her heart, her mind. But motherhood brought her a different realization: she understood, finally, what her mother had lost by dying. She resolved not to miss anything with her own children.
Angela Schellenberg, a therapist and retreat co-facilitator, describes what happens when a young person loses their mother as attachment trauma—a break in the bond that leaves the brain constantly searching for someone who is not there. But something shifts when these women gather. Schellenberg speaks of co-regulation, a neurological phenomenon in which nervous systems settle in the presence of each other. "There's something just about sitting in community," she says, "and that settles the nervous system." The retreats span an unusual age range: women in their twenties sit alongside daughters in their eighties. One woman had not spoken about her mother for forty years until she found this space.
What strikes many of the participants is the reflection they see in each other. Shaina spent thirty years without encountering other women with her particular story—little girls living in a parallel world. When she finally did, she noticed something: the grown women who carried her sorrow also embodied the best of what their mothers had left behind. She could see the mothers in the daughters, in their accomplishments, in who they had become. Edelman, now decades into this work, reminds us that grief and celebration are not opposites. "There will always be a tinge of sadness that pops up from time to time," she says, "because we wish our mom were there to witness our achievements, to help us through hard times. But we can celebrate her life in addition to grieving her absence. Both of those things can be true."
Citações Notáveis
Our mother was usually the person who saw us. So many of us have not felt seen for a long time.— Hope Edelman
I realized what she lost when she died. I do not want to miss anything with my kids.— Shaina, a retreat participant
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did it take a book for these women to find each other? Hadn't grief support existed before?
Grief support existed, sure, but not for this specific wound. A woman who loses her mother at twenty is not the same as a woman who loses her at sixty. The younger loss is attachment trauma—your brain is still wired to need her. Edelman named that. She said: your story matters, and it's not unique, and that changed everything.
The retreats sound emotional. Are they actually healing, or just cathartic?
There's a difference. Catharsis is release. Healing is what happens when your nervous system realizes it's safe. Schellenberg talks about co-regulation—your body literally settles when you're around other people whose bodies understand. That's not just feeling better. That's measurable.
Why do women come back? You mentioned some attending their third retreat.
Because the first time, you realize you're not broken. The second time, you realize you're not alone. The third time, you're part of something. You're helping the new women see what you saw. It becomes reciprocal.
What about the women in their eighties? What are they still grieving?
Time. One woman hadn't talked about her mother in forty years. Forty years of silence. These retreats give permission to grieve something you've been carrying your whole life, even if you thought you'd moved past it.
Shaina realized what her mother lost by dying. That seems like a different kind of pain.
It is. It's the moment you understand your mother's life, not just her death. You become a mother yourself and you think: she never got to see me become this. She never got to know me as an adult. That's when the loss becomes three-dimensional.
Can you carry both grief and joy at the same time?
Edelman says yes, and I think she's right. The sadness doesn't go away—it just gets company. You celebrate her life while you grieve her absence. They're not enemies. They're just both true.