Mother's Day
Mother's Day was almost here, and for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
Not fully.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to imagine things eventually feeling okay again.
Enough to imagine normal life.
Enough to think maybe we were finally slowly moving toward something lighter.
I wanted to buy my mom something meaningful.
Not because life suddenly became easier.
Not because things magically got better.
Because she deserved something thoughtful.
Something that reminded her she mattered.
Something that reminded her she was loved.
Losing my dad changed everything.
Not just emotionally.
Psychologically.
Financially.
Inside routines.
Inside our family.
Inside who we all were.
There are losses that take people.
Then there are losses that quietly rearrange everyone left behind.
Nothing felt the same.
Not holidays.
Not conversations.
Not the house.
Not silence.
Especially silence.
I was helping take care of my mom while quietly collapsing myself.
People saw pieces.
They did not see all of it.
They did not see warming blankets before bed because comfort mattered.
Helping her settle in.
Trying to make difficult days feel less difficult.
Trying to make grief feel less lonely.
Trying to create small moments of normal inside a life that no longer felt normal.
I tucked her into bed.
Warmed blankets for her.
Checked on her.
Sat with her.
Showed up where I could.
Because that was what love looked like to me.
Showing up.
Even exhausted.
Even overwhelmed.
Even quietly falling apart yourself.
Everything good about me came from them.
My empathy came from my mom.
My loyalty came from my dad.
The way I care deeply.
The way I notice small things.
The way I stay.
The way I try.
The way I love.
That came from them too.
People do not realize how much of ourselves quietly comes from the people who raised us.
Ways of speaking.
Ways of caring.
Ways of protecting people.
Ways of carrying responsibility.
Little things.
Pieces of people we love quietly living inside us.
Then suddenly - everything shifted.
Fast.
Confusingly fast.
The kind of fast your brain keeps trying to catch up to long after life already changed.
One day I felt like the daughter helping carry difficult things.
The next - I felt like the problem.
People only saw reactions.
They did not see months leading up to them.
The grief.
The pressure.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The hypervigilance.
Trying to hold things together.
Trying to hold people together.
Trying to survive while helping everyone else survive too.
I remember standing there with my dog.
Watching stability disappear piece by piece.
The car gone.
Transportation gone.
Security gone.
Normal gone.
Watching life become unfamiliar so quickly my nervous system barely understood what was happening.
No transportation.
No home.
No safety left.
People underestimate what instability does psychologically.
How survival changes people.
How fear becomes routine.
How survival quietly becomes identity.
And somehow despite all of it - I still loved them deeply.
I think that is one of the hardest things to explain.
Because people assume pain removes love.
Sometimes pain exists beside love.
Sometimes disappointment exists beside love.
Sometimes confusion exists beside love.
Sometimes grief exists beside love.
People talk about grief like it only happens when someone dies.
I do not think that is true.
I think one of the deepest kinds of grief is grieving people who are still alive.
People you still love.
People who still matter.
People who changed.
People who became harder to reach.
People who once felt like home.
I do not think people fully understand what that kind of grief feels like.
Because part of you keeps remembering what connection sounded like before difficult seasons changed everything.
Before survival.
Before pain.
Before life became heavier than anyone expected.
Sometimes grief is not losing people. Sometimes grief is quietly missing versions of people that still exist.