Mother’s Day Flower Crown Class in Oakland | Honoring Mom After Loss
Until my mom died in September 2024, I never understood that Mother’s Day could be one of the hardest days of the year.
My mom lived to be 94, so loss came to me later than it comes to most people. For years I celebrated Mother’s Day without fully seeing the people around me for whom the day was heavy, tender, or simply hard to get through. I see them now.
I’d made it through Thanksgiving, Christmas, her birthday in February, and my parents’ April wedding anniversary. By the time Mother’s Day rolled around I thought the worst was behind me. It wasn’t. Grief, I was learning, doesn’t have a time limit.
My first Mother’s Day without her, my dad insisted we visit her at the cemetery. I didn’t want to go at first. But I went, and I decorated her crypt with her favorite things – purple flowers and owls.
As we were leaving I noticed how vibrant the cemetery was. Families and flowers everywhere and a quiet kind of sadness hanging over everything — and yet something else too. A sense of togetherness I hadn’t expected.
All of us there for the same reason, grieving in our own way but somehow not alone in it. That’s when it clicked. Grief shared is grief softened — even just a little. And I started thinking about what it might look like next year to bring people together to honor the moms they were missing.
Not long after this day I was going through my moms closet when I came across a purple flower crown I had made for her.
She wore it at the 90th birthday party I hosted for her in 2020. My BFF, Shelia Coates and I also wore flower crowns to the party.
On days when I want to feel close to her I wear it. It has become my ritual — a small, quiet, joyful way of saying: I’m still thinking of you. I’m still glad you were here.
The crown is made of faux flowers — that’s why it survived. That’s why it was still there among her things, unchanged. That’s why I can wear it years later and it looks exactly as it did on her 90th birthday.
I own Mannequin Madness in Oakland — a mannequin warehouse and a studio for flower crown classes. At Mannequin Madness, we’ve always believed objects can hold more than function — they can hold memory.
And when I found that crown among her belongings, I knew I wanted to create a space where others could do for their moms what that flower crown did for me. Make something beautiful in her honor. Keep it forever. Wear it when you need to feel close to her.
American culture often tells us to grieve quickly and quietly. To move on. To keep it private. I never agreed with that. This is why I was always attracted to rituals celebrating Dia de los Muertos, even before my mother died.
After her passing, my appreciation for this ritual deepened. I went to one of the largest Dia De Los Muertos celebrations in Los Angeles with friends who had also lost a parent. We all wore flower crowns. Flowers are at the heart of that tradition.They are a language when words aren’t enough.
In Día de los Muertos there is a profound idea: that grief can be colorful, communal, creative, and even joyful. That honoring the people we’ve lost doesn’t have to happen behind closed doors. That ritual — public, shared, beautiful ritual — is healing.
A friend of mine, Bonnie Morgan, is a grief doula, and after my mom died she shared something that has stayed with me. Grief and gratitude, she told me, can coexist. You can honor the deep pain of losing someone while still being thankful for the time you had, the memories you made, the lessons they left behind.
Bonnie talked about finding joy in small moments — a warm drink, a sunset, what she calls a JOLT: Just One Little Thing. Gratitude doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean you’re okay. It just softens the edges a little. And slowly, gently, it helps you build a life that still has meaning — with them in it, just differently.
This past Mother’s Day I encouraged people to come and make a flower crown in honor of their mother. People could make a flower crown with flowers in the style or color their mother loved. In one of our classes we had a guest who was making a flower crown to wear to her wedding. She brought in a necktie hat belonged to her deceased father and covered the headband with the tie. I encouraged people to do something similar with an item that belonged to their mother.
I am aware that not everyone who is missing their mom has lost her to death. She might be living but has dementia, no longer recognizing your face. She might be in a nursing home, far away or there might be emotional estrangement. Whatever the the circumstances, we encourage people to make a flower crown as a way to process the grief they are feeling from the loss.
You don’t have to come on Mother’s Day. Come on her birthday. Come on your birthday. Come on the anniversary of the day she passed. Come on a Sunday when you simply need to feel close to her.
Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Neither do we. When you’re ready, we’ll be here. Art helps you find a middle ground between feeling numb and feeling overwhelmed. Research shows that creative expression can improve communication about grief. Most importantly, it gives you back a sense of control and agency when life feels chaotic. You choose the colors, you make the design,and you decide when a piece is finished. This naturally increases self-awareness, revealing emotions and strengths you may not have realized you had. For a deeper look, explore this article on Understanding Art Therapy.
Our flower crown classes run every Sunday, year round, 2–4pm at Mannequin Madness in Oakland. $60 for adults, $45 for children ages 8–17. All materials included. Free parking off Hwy 880 at the Oakland/Alameda border. Reserve your spot here.
Visit our website to shop for mannequins and dress forms, rent display pieces, or recycle your old mannequins.
