It’s a question I’ve been asking myself after stumbling upon a post on Instagram. It was addressing mothers — those who have children, who have lost a child, or have sadly suffered miscarriages. It even celebrated and acknowledged pet moms, which, okay, that’s fair, I suppose.

But then it got to me (in a category by my lonesome): women who currently dream of motherhood. Initially, my reaction was positive: “I get to be included!” And then discomfort quickly overtook me: I’m not a mom, and I shouldn’t pretend that I have any right to be included in the category.

Perhaps my stance is severe—and listen, I wouldn’t dare take away someone’s need—or hell, even their desire to be included in the celebration of what they crave most. I liken it to this yard sale my best friend and I went to while she was pregnant. There she was, being fawned over by the women hosting it, grabbing all sorts of motherly whosits, whatsits, and thingamabobs while I embarrassedly purchased a pair of striped rattle socks, hoping my bestie didn’t see.

She wouldn’t have judged me, of course. But there was something surreal about our situations. There she was, living my dreamed reality, and I, as my mother would have so lovingly put it, playing house. The divide between our lives couldn’t have been more paramount.

And she’s the one who deserves to celebrate Mother’s Day.

All my mother friends do.

They’re the ones who greet each morning and end each night with a worry I’ll never understand.

Or a love.

They’re the ones whose shopping trips have changed.

The ones that sacrifice what they want to watch on TV or do on weekends.

But only slightly because they want to end the night with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Blue’s Clues.

Sure, maybe someone could make an argument that I’m taking actions as a sort of mother-in-waiting: I’m using pre-seed lubricant to elevate my husband’s sperm, cutting out caffeine, taking my temperature in the mornings, and peeing into a cup at night to track ovulation.

Here I am praying that I don’t get my period, but grateful when it arrives on time, because at least being regular gives me an increased shot.

Other women who are not trying to get pregnant don’t do these things.

But that still doesn’t mean I deserve to be in the category, even though I want to.

I appreciated the inclusion in that post, but the other women they mentioned—the ones who carried full term and those who didn’t, the ones who spent their last dime on IVF praying for a positive phone call, the ones who went through labor, who are making choices daily to bring their children up with values and a playful spirit—they’re the ones who deserve the inclusion.

Not people like me.

And that’s okay.

Truth be told, Mother’s Day is strange for me. I can’t celebrate it as a mother, nor can I celebrate it as a daughter. The day exists in limbo.

Despite that, Mother’s Day isn’t just another day. I get to send “Happy Mother’s Day” texts to my three best friends, text my mother-in-law, and even order her presents! It’s the first time in a long time that the excitement outweighed the sadness.

We live in a society where we want everyone to be included. And I get that.

I would love to wake up on Mother’s Day with a bouquet of flowers and a card saying, “You’re a mother, just without the baby, but don’t worry about that because she’s coming.”

But like the socks, I would feel embarrassed.

Embarrassed of taking away something that doesn’t belong to me.

I have faith it will one day.

Who knows, maybe there will be a baby in my tummy next year.

But until then, Mother’s Day is for those who know what it truly means.

Like my mom.

And those I consider myself lucky enough to be around.