I forgot about Mother’s Day. The day itself didn’t pass me by, but the lead up to it did. Last week’s column went to print without so much as a passing mention of my first Mother’s Day - no lyrical reflection, no poignant observations, nothing. It was so obvious, and yet, I forgot entirely.

At first, I felt a flicker of guilt about it. A missed chance. A blank space where something profound might have gone. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed oddly fitting. Because if there is anything that defines these early months of motherhood for me, it is precisely that: the forgetting. The losing track. The feeling of chasing after the hours and minutes of the day before they outrun you.

And here, on this tiny island, that feeling is amplified.

The dark evenings that I have grown accustomed to over winter are fading, each day letting the light linger a little longer. And with the arrival of spring comes the shift towards ‘Season’, when this island will welcome thousands of people in the space of a few months. You can feel the change in the air before you see it. Then, suddenly, the first tourists appear, and before you know it, the island is wholeheartedly awake.

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This week, I met a lovely couple who had decided to visit Rum based purely off reading this magazine. They told me they like to coorie up on a Sunday morning, stick Love Songs on Radio 2 (me too!), and delve into the goings on of Rum that week. And it made my heart soar. Here I am, writing what I find to be ordinary musings of daily life here while my baby naps on the sofa next to me, while others use it as an excuse to explore this beautiful pocket of Scotland. It is truly humbling and so, so lovely. And it’s made me excited to welcome more people to the island once again.

There are signs of Season approaching everywhere: paint being refreshed, signs being drawn up, conversations turning toward bookings and busy weeks ahead. It’s the time of year when everything starts to move again.

For my husband, this means longer hours at the Bunkhouse, and a noticeable absence from home. For me, it means learning how to hold everything together in his absence, with a baby who changes almost daily.

And at night, it means shifts.

One of us takes the earlier stretch, the other the later one, a handover somewhere in the dark. At around 2am the other night, in that strange, disorienting hour where nothing quite makes sense, we came perilously close to our first real argument since he was born.

He walked into the room at 2am, ready to take over his shift, when the air changed. His teeth clenched, his fists held tight, he turns to me: “I need the bed,” he says angrily.

I remember feeling a sudden flash of indignation. Need the bed? As though he were the only one who was tired? There’s an unspoken rule with new parents - what happens in the wee hours, stays in the wee hours. Words can’t hold weight when sleep is long forgotten and irritation is rife. And with just a few hours under my belt, I matched his rage equally. “Kneed,” he clarified, rubbing his leg where it had made contact with the wooden bedpost. “My knee.”

The three trees and the view that anchors a life on my Scottish island

Under the Snow Moon, a sleepy walk brings a moment of magic

At the pier on Rum, a ferry’s bell becomes a call to community

And just like that, the annoyance dissolved. The absurdity caught up with us and we giggled into the night. Because of course that’s what it was. Two people, exhausted, mishearing each other in the dark, on the brink of an argument that had no real substance at all.

It felt, in hindsight, like a perfect snapshot of this stage of life. Everything is heightened. Every emotion sits closer to the surface. And yet, just as quickly, it can pass.

The island is preparing for its busiest season, and in many ways, so am I. Or maybe I’m already there. I’m still learning, still adjusting, still navigating my newfound baby brain. Perhaps that is why I forgot Mother’s Day.

Because motherhood, at least for me right now, is not something I can neatly package into a single reflection or a well-timed column. It is ongoing, unfinished, and often a little chaotic. It’s a mismatch of thinking you have figured something out, only to have to start from scratch the following day. It’s a haze of belly laughs and hushed giggles in the night, and tears both happy and sometimes not-so-happy. It’s the most full my heart has ever felt. And it’s more than I could have ever hoped it would be.

Elle Duffy lives and works on the Isle of Rum, and posts on Instagram and TikTok at @lifeonrum

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