It was going to swallow me up if I didn’t.

I said to my grief -

I see you, I hear you, I feel you.

My mother died and it changed everything.

I say to myself:

I am allowed to simply exist in space and time.

To let things be simple.

Let the hard days be hard.

Let the good days be good.

I do not need permission from anyone but myself.

I say to my grief - I see you, I hear you, I feel you.

My mother died one summer afternoon.

I woke up.

I needed to listen to my gut

stopped abandoning myself

told people how I felt

stood up for myself.

I met my higher self in my grief.

I had never met her before.

Now that we have engaged

I have a duty to not let her down.

I made a promise to her in the woods, on the green mossy emerald trail.

I met my inner child

in the backyard of my childhood home.

She was by the picnic table under the pink flowering cherry tree.

That tree isn’t there today, but it’s with her;

along with the promise I made to her.

I told her I will always come back for her

now that we have met.

And then I realized

the three of us are together.

We have been all along -

I just needed to find them.

Grief is a gift if you let it.

When everyone was being attentive, pouring out their affections and condolences; because that’s still what I feel I need three years later. To those not close to this deep grief, it may appear that a significant amount of time has passed, but to me it still feels like yesterday my mother died. How does one move forward after mother loss? It often feels like one step forward, two steps back.

Each day I wonder - Where is my mother? Does she miss me? Does she feel how I feel? Does she see me fall to the ground in tears on a Tuesday afternoon?

These questions echo in my brain on repeat. The trouble is no one can tell you for certain the answers to these questions. That’s the hard part. I often want proof - “show me my mother” I say out loud to the universe, but I don’t often get a reply. I feel her around me, signs and things, but I often daydream of a phone call to her. I bargain with the universe - could she spare just one minute to speak to her daughter? I crave it. How can a child not crave her mother? To live without her often feels wrong, like something is always missing from me.

Tú me manques.

No one lives forever, but I never considered the day my mother would die. It was simply off limits, not a possibility at the time. My mom was my mom. She was just…there.

Through the years of grief, I’ve been confronted with most daunting task of all, mothering myself. Is this even possible? I often think. You have to make yourself the priority, stand up for yourself, do not participate in your own self harm. It’s a trial and error in a way. No one is there to correct you like your mother would, no one is there to keep you within the lines. You soon learn to check yourself, sit yourself down and say how do I want to carry myself through the rest of my life? Do I want to feel like a weightless balloon or can I find a way to ground myself, to begin to come back into my body.

I searched for my mother in the people around me. I approached them with things I would approach my mother with, only to be disappointed. I soon learned to stop doing this. Instead, I sat these emotions, cried and got on with my day. As sad as that may sound, it creates a sense of inner trust that nothing else has. I know that whatever comes my way, I have an unshakable sense of confidence that I will figure it out.

Grief gives you wisdom you never asked for at a young age. A perspective that can often be quite isolating at time, your thoughts often different from your peers who haven’t lost a mother. However, in a way, I often say, I am thankful for my grief. It has shown me things that nothing else ever has. It has made it very clear what is worth the worry.

In the search for home, I soon learned my home is within me and I carry it everywhere I go. There can be many different definitions of home like certain locations or people, but I never considered that my home is within me. It is both tragic and comforting, but so is life in a way. You learn life is a constant balance between joy and pain. You cannot have one without the other.

I want more than anything to fall into someone’s arms. To tell me it’s okay to cry without offering a tissue. To sit with me in my pain of mother loss.

A meal waiting for me at home or an “it’s okay I got it” - these are the things I crave the most. I haven’t had that and I know not everyone does. I often have a hard time accepting that I am deserving of that because I’ve learned to carry the pain alone. I’m good at it now, it’s a skill you learn in order to carry on.

I’m ready to fall into someone’s arms, I’ve carried the pain for long enough. I want to be witnessed and perhaps cared for from time to time. I’m beginning to try to learn to be accepting of this type of love.

It’s the most human thing in all of us - to love and be loved, to care for and be cared for. Isn’t that the point of us all being here anyways? If not that, then what else?

We took the train into NYC with my sister and niece. It was August 31^st, the sun was out and I wore a white sundress with an old denim jacket from J.Crew. I was getting married the following summer and knew I exactly which strapless, sweetheart neckline dress I wanted from Jenny Yoo Bridal. We splurged and got lunch at a nice Italian restaurant in midtown after - got tipsy on white wine and ordered three different desserts. That night I drove back home after saying goodbye to my mom in Connecticut, not knowing it was the last time I would ever touch her, see her, feel her. I felt like I was on top on the world, it felt like another coming of age, picking your wedding dress. An adrenaline rush-I was excited for the future.

September 24^th 2023 was a Sunday, I called my mom that night just to say hi and we ended up chatting for about an hour. I often think about the sound of her voice when she answered the phone. She sounded happy to talk to me, like she wanted an update. I didn’t know it was going to be the last phone call to her. At one point during the call, she told me she was going to go to bed, I asked her to stay on the phone for a little bit longer. There was something within me that missed her and I wanted to hear her voice for a few more minutes. I had a sense that I wasn’t going to talk to her again for a while but I didn’t think much of it. I had no idea it was the last time I would ever speak to my mother.

September 25^th felt like a day like any other, I was in school at the time but had the day off from class so spent the morning getting laundry done and cleaning my apartment. It was pouring rain that day. That evening I went to the gym not knowing my life was about to change forever.

On a yoga mat, I had my air pods in listening to Joan Jett on repeat when I got a call from my sister around 5:00pm. This was out of the ordinary as she has two small children and 5:00pm was not a time to be chatting on the phone. I knew it was odd. I answered…

“Becca, where are you right now?”

My brain was going a million miles a minute, all I could think was who was it? Who was it? I knew something bad had happened to someone and just needed to know who it was.

“I’m at the gym, let me go to my car and I’ll call you back.”

The tunnel vision set in next, the rapid heartrate, the feeling of pure panic and dread consumed my entire body. I hated this feeling; I had never felt this before. It was terrifying. In a daze, I got to the front seat of my car in the parking lot. Afraid to call my sister back to receive some horrible news, I did it anyway. The memory of this evening goes in and out.

“Who is it? Just tell me who it is.”

“Mom had a heart attack and died.”

Pure terror began to set in.

The days that followed were painful to get through filled with sleepless nights, low appetite, puffy eyes from crying. I discovered a new way to cry, it was more like wailing. I had never felt this kind of pain before so it made sense that everything felt different, including how I cried. I not only learned the concept of day-by-day but also the minute-by-minute strategy in which I literally had to tell my body what to do step by step. I learned what derealization is and how shock can take over your body in ways you will not understand until it happens to you. Derealization as in the walls around you feel fake and the floor beneath you is pretend.

The wake and funeral came and went, I only remember brief bits and pieces. I have never been so numb. At the time I had no idea that grief was going to become such a large part of my life.

In an effort to make sense of the intense array of emotions that follows the sudden death of your mother, a grief journal was the closest thing to feeling grounded. I had all this energy that needed to go somewhere, thoughts I needed to share. Rage, I needed to express. Writing became my anchor in what felt like a sea of isolation.

I often resort to the day-to-day mindset when it comes to my grief. It’s still too daunting for me to think of all the years ahead that I will have without my mother here. I need her to witness me now, as a 32-year-old who is still figuring everything out. Do any of us really know what we are doing anyways?

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I walked into her closet expecting to see her things hanging there, but they were gone. This was a truly unbearable moment in my grief since losing my mother - so obviously present right in front of me. She doesn’t need her clothes anymore, she’s not here.

I felt that familiar feeling in my throat as I walked home tonight. The tears beginning to well up in my eyes. There should be a word for this. That feeling when you’re out in public and you’re holding back the tears, but not just a couple tears, I mean full blown sob on the floor for 30 minutes type tears. It hit me today like a slap in the face. I made it into my building, up the elevator to the 5th floor and finally into my studio, threw off my coat and fell to the floor with my groceries. This is grief.

I like to tell myself it gets “better” but the waves are just coming unexpectedly now. Research and doctors and therapists will tell you this is “early” grief and label things, but it’s my mother. How can I place a label on my grief for my. mother. It’s rude in a way.

There’s some comfort in knowing the grief is here to stay but let’s all admit it is quite daunting. A permanent thing in your life you cannot get rid of or run away from. I’m working on not rushing my grief and letting it show up how it wants to, because I’ve found that’s truly the only option. With grief comes some fear of getting older. I’ve made it this far without my mother and I have to go how much longer? I often have to reel it in from there because that’s too much to grasp in one sitting.

I realized this is one way to cope but it’s another loss in a way. The grief of almost missing more time, Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas.

I often fantasize about seeing my mother again. I’m not sure how but I hold on to the hope that I will. Without that, I’m not sure grief would be bearable in any sense. I miss having a witness to my life like my mother. I need her to witness me, to see me fully as I am.

Seasons keep changing, holidays keep passing and my mother is still gone.

Yes, I am often lonely, but in my loneliness I have found a sense of freedom. A crash course in getting to know myself and my true wants and desires. I feel like I’m in on some secret after losing my mother. Talk about a reality check. Grief makes it so clear what is important in life, and that list is very short.

“I’d know those toes anywhere” my mom said when we were side-by-side in changing rooms at the local beach. Our barefoot feet on the sandy concrete floor. I remember thinking- “mom you’re looking at my toes?” That was probably 15+ years ago. I think about it all the time, probably more so than anything my mom has said.

My mother was my mirror. She reflected my life back to me. Gave me advice on anything and everything. What do I do without a mirror? Find a new one? There’s something about losing the person that knew you the most. A specific kind of lonliness.

Two years later there’s a part of me that daydreams about seeing my mother, imagining her return from a long vacation away. I can’t help it, and I know that this is not true, but I do it anyway.

I often catch myself feeling like something is just missing, and that’s because it is. What a truly terrible feeling - knowing something so important is missing and there’s nothing you can do to replace it. I often imagine what a phone call to my mother would feel like. A cure all.

On a yoga mat, I had my air pods in listening to Joan Jett on repeat when I got a call from my sister around 5:00pm. This was out of the ordinary as she has two small children and 5:00pm was not a time to be chatting on the phone. I knew it was odd. I answered…

“Becca, where are you right now?”

My brain was going a million miles a minute, all I could think was who was it? Who was it? I knew something bad had happened to someone and just needed to know who it was.

“I’m at the gym, let me go to my car and I’ll call you back.”

The tunnel vision set in next, the rapid heart rate, the feeling of pure panic and dread consumed my entire body. I hated this feeling; I had never felt this before. It was terrifying. In a daze, I got to the front seat of my car in the parking lot. Afraid to call my sister back to receive some horrible news, I did it anyway. The memory of this evening goes in and out.

“Who is it? Just tell me who it is.”

“Mom had a heart attack and died.”

Pure terror began to set in.

The days that followed were painful to get through filled with sleepless nights, low appetite, puffy eyes from crying. I discovered a new way to cry, it was more like wailing. I had never felt this kind of pain before so it made sense that everything felt different, including how I cried. I not only learned the concept of day-by-day but also the minute-by-minute strategy in which I literally had to tell my body what to do step by step. I learned what derealization is and how shock can take over your body in ways you will not understand until it happens to you. Derealization as in the walls around you feel fake and the floor beneath you is pretend.

The wake and funeral came and went, I only remember brief bits and pieces. I have never been so numb. At the time I had no idea that grief was going to become such a large part of my life.

In an effort to make sense of the intense array of emotions that follows the sudden death of your mother, a grief journal was the closest thing to feeling grounded. I had all this energy that needed to go somewhere, thoughts I needed to share. Rage, I needed to express. Writing became my anchor in what felt like a sea of isolation.

Two years later and I am not ready to accept the reality of her death. The shock of mother loss stays with you, it takes time to adjust. It’s a constant process of checking in on how I am feeling and remembering that all of it is okay and none of it is right or wrong. The waves really do come and go as cliché as it sounds. Last night I sat in my 5^th floor studio apartment and imagined what it would be like to have a phone call to my mom or even a hug, it seems like that would fix so much. I know that it’s not possible but at times it is nice to imagine it. There’s so much I want to tell her and show her.

There comes a point in grief where you realize it really is you and your grief, no matter who else is around you. The truth is no one can understand your grief like you and no one’s grief will feel like yours. I find some comfort in this because it allows me to trust myself in what I need. I have found that grief has forced my to get to know myself on another level that I didn’t have access to before.

When people ask me what my favorite memory with her is – I don’t hesitate to think of a response. Well, we used to do this thing called “dance break” – you push all the living room furniture out of the way and dance to jammin oldies, on a school night. Dance break is how I remember my mom.

I admire my mom’s love for nature. She was always reading the Farmer’s almanac, checking what phase of the moon we are in, estimating how much snow we were going to get each winter. She loved spending time in the garden and digging in the dirt. She had a connection with nature that makes me appreciate it a bit more now.

Swimming in the ocean was one of her favorite things to do. I vividly remember riding in the backseat of my mom’s Volvo wagon – the smell of Coppertone sunscreen, my sticky legs on the leather seats with Cheryl crow on the radio driving to Planting Island. I was always so excited when my mom came in the water with me. I could sense an immediate sigh of relief in her once she was in the salt water. Last spring, I placed some of my mom’s ashes in the ocean there, it’s forever one of my favorite spots.

I think the two things that made my mom laugh the hardest were Seinfeld and Danny. I remember trying to fall asleep when I was young but my mom was laughing too hard while watching Seinfeld episodes and it kept me up, I didn’t mind it though. When we moved to Bethany, I remember hearing my mom giggling late at night and I remember feeling a sense of calm knowing my mom was happy.

Mom was always worried about everyone around her. She’d give me one look and say “What’s the matter Bec?” People have told me she always put them at ease and described her as their sound board. She made sure to put little notes in our lunch boxes when I had a track meet or Meredith a field hockey game, it usually said “u go girl.”

My mom and I were not only mother and daughter, but good friends. We had similar taste and would giggle at the same things in public. I loved just being a girl with my mom. At night we would catch up on the phone as girlfriends would. I think about the last time I talked to my mom quite often. It was getting late and she said she was going to bed, I asked her to stay on the phone for a little while longer, I had this feeling like I wasn’t going to talk with her again for a while, I wanted to keep chatting like girls.

My mom taught me to cry when I needed to and to laugh as much as I wanted. She gave me a sense of humor and showed the importance of listening to my gut. She taught me to rest when I needed it and how to make a house feel like a home.

Losing my mom has completely broken my heart but grief has taught me more than anything else in my life. You appreciate the moments of joy a little bit more and understand the fragility of life. Mom always talked about how her father passed away when she was a teenager. I could never really wrap my head around the magnitude of losing your parent until it happened to me. I often wish I could say - mom! I get it now!

My mom was my person I went to for basically everything. In my life I’ve realized not everyone is close with their mother so I feel lucky in a way. I’ve found this little voice in my head that is her guiding me and reminding me to enjoy things as they are now and to, most importantly, never forget to have fun along the way.