How can you “opt out” of your mother? I recently received a kindly worded email from Ancestry.com.

“We realize that for some, Mother’s Day may be a tough time, if you prefer not to receive emails about our Mother’s Day sale you can opt out below, but don’t worry even if you choose to opt out, you’ll still continue to get other great updates from Ancestry,” the online genealogy portal wrote.

Well, that’s a nice idea, I thought. I had not been thinking about Mother’s Day, though it is fast approaching.

I lost my irreplaceable mom in 2023, three days after Mother’s Day. I don’t plan for the holiday any longer, but the last thing I need is a reminder.

I clicked on the opt-out button.

Now, I am not so sure.

“Opting out” is a practice that involves companies offering us the chance to decline receiving marketing emails that may remind us of deep personal loss. Experts say it’s a well-intended customer service to show that these corporations care.

The practice is new to me, but it has been a trend.

“Originally popularized by online florist Bloom & Wild in 2019, opt-out campaigns were widely praised as a thoughtful response to potentially sensitive occasions. They offered customers control and showed emotional awareness at a time when inbox marketing often felt one-size-fits-all,” according to a blog from Dotdigital, which reports on marketing trends.

Today, opt-outs are a “a near-standard fixture in inboxes,” particularly around Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

“Many people struggle with Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, for different reasons — perhaps they have lost parents or children, confronted fertility issues or have complicated relationships with family members,” according to a 2021 report by NPR.

NPR quoted author and “grief advocate” Megan Devine, who said that “there are so many ways to lose a mother or to lose mothering.”

It can be a relief from advertising pitches that come in the spring, according to NPR, “full of painful reminders, often in the form of retail advertisements and promotions that can range in tone from straightforward to snarky.”

“We understand that Mother’s Day can be a difficult time for some,” read one message from the e-commerce marketplace Etsy, which is known for its handmade crafts and gifts. “If you’d rather not receive emails from us about Mother’s Day this year, let us know by removing yourself below. We’ll still keep you in the loop about one-of-a-kind finds we think you’ll love, just without the Mother’s Day messages.”

A diverse array of companies have mounted opt-out campaigns, from Pandora, the dessert company Milk Bar, the luggage company Away and the Democratic National Committee, according to NPR.

“Indeed, many companies told NPR they wanted to recognize that Mother’s Day can be challenging, especially this year, and help make customers’ lives easier,” the news organization reported.

Yes, Mother’s Day can trigger sad memories, but these “opt-out” messages are no relief for me. Rather, they are the tip of a mournful iceberg of incessant pitches and messaging from companies to “remind” us that we love — or loved — our mothers. This rampant commercialism has taken over our sentimental holidays.

This time of year, the ads and appeals arrive in an avalanche in my email inbox.

“Order today for Mother’s Day delivery,” an athletic leisurewear company hawked. “A Mother’s Day style guide!” from one of my favorite boutique websites. “Only the best for mom,” exhorts a jewelry vendor. “Mother’s Day keepsakes,” touts another.

“Deals for every mom,” appeals a craft store.

They are tumbling into my inbox as I write this. Mother’s Day hawking is incessant in every aspect of world communication. The merchandising is everywhere, in newspapers and magazines, in every corner of the internet, from social media to marketing emails to websites to billboards, in brick-and-mortar stores and restaurants.

And don’t forget — Father’s Day is next!

They are constant, inescapable reminders of the greedy commercialism that dominates our society. We have no control over these massive marketing campaigns that take advantage of every opportunity to make green off our love for family.

I could never “opt out” of my mother’s memory. Of her birthing me, sacrificing for me, unconditionally loving me.

If only I could click “opt out” of the rest.

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Laura Washington is a political commentator and longtime Chicago journalist. Her columns appear in the Tribune each Wednesday. Write to her at LauraLauraWashington@gmail.com.

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