Four years
November 8th marks four years since I lost my mom. Four years since everything I knew broke open and the world is still shifting in ways I still can’t fully name. Grief isn’t a straight road, it’s a labyrinth. It’s a mess and a maze all at the same time. Some days I walk through it calmly, breathing deep, grateful to have survived another turn. Hiking through places I knew my mother would love breathing in crisp air and I know then I can feel her there. Other days, I slam into walls made of memories, and I ache like it just happened yesterday.
People say time heals, but it doesn’t, not even slightly. Time teaches, especially how to fake it. It also teaches how to carry the weight differently. Some mornings I can laugh, work, create, and feel almost whole. Other mornings I stare at the ceiling and think about the space she left, a space that no one else could ever fill.
I’ve kept working through all of it. I’ve kept building my life piece by piece, even when it felt like holding everything together with shaking hands. I built this business for her, for the strength she gave me, for the words she never got to read. I’ve published my own work many times now, and I’ve even been published by others. Every success feels like a conversation I wish I could have with her. “Mom, look. I did it.”
There are so many things she’s missed.
The late-night laughs. The healing. The slow, quiet days when I finally felt peace again. She hasn’t seen my sisters growing up into young women… strong, funny, and fierce in ways that remind me of her. She hasn’t seen me learn to be happy again, to find joy without guilt. She hasn’t seen the forgiveness that never came from others, but still bloomed in me.
And then there’s my dad. That’s a different kind of grief, the kind you choose. I finally cut him off, and though it hurt, it was necessary. You can’t heal in the same place you were broken. That decision came from love. A love for myself, and for the memory of the woman who taught me what love should feel like.
There’s a hole where she was, and nothing fills it. I’ve stopped trying to. I’ve learned to build around it instead. And while I try to let light pour through it sometimes. It is hard to honor it on the dark days. Grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you grow around.
Four years without her feels impossible, and yet I’m still here. Still writing. Still working. Still remembering.
Because she never left entirely. She just changed forms. She’s in every poem, every stone I pick up, and every person I help heal through my work.
Grief changes shape, but it never disappears. It becomes part of your story. And if you let it, it can become the fire that keeps you creating, surviving, and loving through the loss.
Here’s to four years of missing her, and four years of finding myself again in the space she left behind.
