My life, lately, has felt like a ship adrift during a hurricane, struggling to find its way without a compass. The passing of my mother has altered everything, leaving me grappling with a reality I still can’t fully grasp. How do you say goodbye to the person who brought you into this world? How do you go on when the very foundation of your life has been shaken beyond repair?
In the quiet moments, my mind always drifts back to her. It’s as if every stillness invites memories of her presence to fill the space, yet the unbelievable reality remains: she’s not here. That is the most jarring part—realizing that someone who was once a constant in your life is now just…gone. There is a hollowness where she used to be, a void so vast it threatens to consume everything.
I’ve started to wonder more about what happens after this life. Is there anything else? Are there places where our loved ones go, where they wait for us? Do we only see signs because we want or need to believe in them? It’s a puzzle I wrestle with daily, as I cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, she’s still out there somewhere, watching over me.
This loss, though deeply emotional, hasn’t stayed confined to my heart. It has seeped into my entire being. Physically, I’ve changed. The weight gain is not just a symptom of grief but a reflection of the burden I carry inside. My clothes don’t fit anymore, and in a cruel parallel, neither does my life. Without her, nothing seems to fit.
I’ve found myself trying to fill the void by taking on more and more. It’s as if by staying busy, I can distract myself from the gaping hole in my heart. But instead of helping, it has left me overwhelmed and burned out. The balance I once knew feels so far away now, replaced by a constant state of chaos.
Grief is chaotic like that. It doesn’t care about your plans or your stability. It throws everything into disarray, making it impossible to know which way is up. There have been days when I’ve felt completely lost, like I’m wandering in the dark with no light to guide me.
But amidst the darkness, there have been tiny glimmers of hope, small flickers of light that remind me healing is possible. I’ve started to take those first tentative steps toward reclaiming parts of my life, even if I’m not sure what the outcome will be. Exercise, for instance, has become a new way to process my emotions. The movement, the physical exertion—it’s like pushing through the weight of grief, one step at a time. There’s something so grounding in that.
And then there’s journaling. The act of putting pen to paper, spilling out the thoughts that have been swirling endlessly in my mind, has been a refuge. Writing has always been a sanctuary for me, a place where I can work through emotions that are too raw to speak aloud. In the stillness of my writing space, I find moments of clarity, fleeting as they may be, that allow me to face this grief head-on.
But there’s also been something else that has made a difference: rest. Taking time to simply pause, to breathe, to just be—these moments of respite have been essential. I used to think they were indulgent, but now I realize they are necessary. They’ve allowed me to gather my strength, to regroup, to remind myself that it’s okay to take a step back from the relentless pace of life.
Grief has no rulebook. There is no clear path or guide to follow. It’s deeply personal, and everyone experiences it in their own way. Some days, it feels like the waves of sorrow will knock me down, like I’ll never find solid ground again. But other days, the memories bring comfort instead of pain. It’s in those moments of calm that I start to see glimpses of a new normal, of a life where her absence is still felt but doesn’t overshadow everything else.
For those of you who are navigating a similar journey, I want to tell you this: it’s okay to not be okay. Grieving doesn’t mean going back to who you were before your loss, and you shouldn’t expect yourself to. Instead, it’s about finding a way to integrate that loss into who you are becoming. Every small step forward—whether it’s rediscovering a passion, like journaling, or simply giving yourself permission to take a break—is progress.
As I continue to walk this path, I realize how important it is to share this journey. There’s something deeply healing in knowing we are not alone, in understanding that our pain connects us to others who have experienced the same. We may all have our unique stories, but in the shared experience of loss, there is an unspoken camaraderie. We are united in our grief, but also in our hope for healing.
Every day, I try to honor my mother’s memory by living with intention, by choosing to embrace this new normal. It doesn’t mean the grief goes away—it never truly does—but I’m learning to carry it differently. It’s less of a weight I’m trying to escape and more of a part of me, something that shapes who I am moving forward.
It’s strange to think that in the end, this journey through grief isn’t about forgetting. It’s about remembering. It’s about holding on to the lessons, the love, and the memories that our loved ones left behind. Carrying them with us, not as burdens, but as parts of who we are. It’s in this way that we find the strength to move forward, to live fully again, even as we continue to hold their memory close to our hearts.
This journey is not linear. It’s not predictable, and it’s certainly not easy. There are days when it feels like the grief will swallow me whole, and there are other days when I find a sense of peace in the quiet moments of reflection. I’ve learned that it’s okay to let myself feel all of it—the pain, the sadness, the anger, the confusion, and even the moments of joy when they come.
Grief has taught me that life is fragile, but it’s also resilient. We bend, but we don’t break. And even in our darkest moments, there is always the possibility of light. It’s not about rushing the process or trying to force myself to “move on.” Instead, it’s about honoring where I am at any given moment, knowing that healing doesn’t happen all at once. It happens gradually, in the small, quiet moments when we least expect it.
So here’s to all of us who are finding our way through the darkness. Here’s to the tiny steps we take each day, the moments of courage, the times when we choose to keep going even when it feels impossible. Here’s to honoring those we’ve lost by continuing to live fully, with intention, with love, and with hope.
