"mother's day, 'firsts,' & time"

Image Source: Ron Lach from Pexels.

firsts & time

The “firsts” in life often stay with us. They mark moments that shape who we are. Our first kiss, our first car, our first job, our first love. In grief after someone passes, there are “firsts” too: the first loved one's birthday, the first holiday, the first anniversary of their passing. And then there is another type of "firsts," the milestones our loved ones should have shared with us. These moments feel enormous. They arrive like sudden emotional thunderstorms, reminding us of what we've lost.

As time goes on, more “firsts” continue to show up, but they won’t always carry the same weight (not meaning they don't matter, they do). Things become "seconds" and then "thirds" and so on. When those moments pass, they often leave behind a quieter, deeper ache: the realization of just how long we may have to wait to see our loved ones again. Yes, the milestone grief-related days remain, like birthdays, anniversaries, the five-year mark, the ten-year mark, and beyond. And for me, it’s during this second year without my Mom that the reality of just how long I may have to wait to see her again has truly begun to settle in.

mother's day

While writing in my Mom’s Mother’s Day card this year, I felt a deeper sort of sadness settle in, and not just because she wouldn't be here physically to receive it. As I glanced at the date in the corner, it hit me: this is only the second Mother’s Day card I've written in since she passed. And I couldn’t help but wonder: how many more will I write before I can see her again?

And then I started thinking about the Heavenly Mother’s Day posts I’ve seen on social media from friends and colleagues over the years. You don’t really see those posts—truly see them—until you’ve lost your own mother. Many of them mentioned it had been ten, fifteen, even twenty years since their mothers passed. I remember wondering this year: How do they do it?

As I looked at the photo I chose to share on Mother's Day (one where my mom beams with joy, her arms wrapped lovingly around me and my brother), I thought about her strength. Not just her brave fights through 3 rounds of breast cancer, but the deeper strength she carried with having lost both of her parents at such a young age. Despite the trauma, she still found joy. She still laughed. She still showed up for life. She still poured her heart into everything she did. Even with all the pain she carried and the various other heartbreaks she felt throughout her life, she kept smiling. She kept going.

Maybe I’m not as strong—or not strong enough—as her yet. I don’t like the idea that it could be 30, 40, maybe even 50 years before I see my Mom again. That kind of time feels overwhelming—like running down a hallway that never ends, with my Mom waiting at the far end, arms open wide, just out of reach. The thought of that seemingly endless stretch is deeply unsettling.

So instead, I imagine stepping out of that hallway through a luminous wooden door and into a beautiful courtyard. A place where I can pause, take a breath, and do my best. I may not be able to fully reach her now, but I can still talk to her and can see her smiling and giving me a thumbs-up through the windows. And in this garden, I’ll do my best to live a life she’d be proud of—planting seeds, tending to what matters, and growing through each season. I’ll focus on those things until one day, I see her standing in the hallway doorway—smiling gently as she opens the door and tells me it’s time for us to go home.

reframing

So, how do we learn to live with the unknown stretch of time between now and when we see our loved ones again?

We may never be fully okay with it, but little by little, we learn to accept it. In that quiet acceptance, we do our best with the time we’ve been given, carrying their memory with us as we continue. And when that long-awaited reunion comes, we’ll have so many stories to tell: about the life we lived, the love we held, and the ways we honored them in the in-between.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love and miss you dearly.

-j🌻

"the importance of grief communities"

Image Source: Tima Miroshnichenko from Pexels.

As the second anniversary of my mom’s passing came and went, I ended the day feeling deeply grateful—not just for those in my life who reached out, but also for the support of the grief community. While a few core individuals let me down, I’ve come to accept that I won’t always receive the same care and consideration that I offer to others. I'm also sure many people don’t see much significance in these anniversaries. Ultimately, I know that when it comes down to it, at least my mom knew I was thinking of and honoring her that day.

But even when I clearly express the simple ways I’d like to be supported in my grief, I’ve learned that not everyone will show up as I hope. Is it okay? No, of course not. But I can't carry anger or disappointment with me. Rather than dwelling on resentment, I choose to focus on those who showed up—the ones I expected and even the ones I didn’t, including those behind usernames.

Sometimes, the deepest and most genuine support comes from people who truly understand—those who have walked the same path of grief and know what it means to face these hard anniversaries. You may not know them in person, but their kindness and generosity transcend that distance.

Find a community that will show up for you in ways others won’t or can’t. Among the bereaved, there is an abundance of love and selflessness. Despite their own pain, they continue to support, encourage, and embrace those who need it most.

To those who supported me on such a meaningful day—thank you. I am deeply grateful for your kindness.

-j🌻

"a reflection of the first anniversary"

Image Source: Arbaz Khan from Pixabay

Having missed the opportunity to share my thoughts on the first anniversary of my Mom's passing, I decided not to publish anything at all. It felt as though the raw, real-time emotions of that day had already mostly slipped away, leaving my words less authentic than I wanted them to be.

As the second anniversary of my Mom's passing quickly approaches, I find myself reflecting on a particular feeling that still fascinates me. On the first anniversary of her passing, much like during holidays, special occasions, or monthly milestones, I permitted myself to feel whatever emotions surfaced—and I did. Leading up to the day, I felt a wave of anxiety that intensified my grief, and on the day itself, I experienced expected deep sadness several times. I also took a quiet moment to pause and reflect at the exact time she had taken her last breath.

What still intrigues me today is how it didn’t fully hit me until the evening of last year’s anniversary: making it through the entire year wouldn’t bring her back in her physical form. As strange as it sounds—and I’m not sure why I thought this—I had this unexpressed hope that enduring the year would somehow lead to her walking through the front door, wrapping me in the biggest hug, and telling me that she was back and how proud she was that I made it. Instead, I was met with a bittersweet mix of accomplishment for getting through the year and deep disappointment. A heavy knot formed in my stomach as the realization set in: this was only the first of many anniversaries. None of them would ever bring her back.

With the upcoming anniversary rapidly approaching, I can’t help but feel a familiar sadness knowing it will be just another of many where she won’t return. Another year gone by. But on a more hopeful note, it also marks another year closer to being reunited—whether in a warm afterlife or in the quiet embrace of nothingness. In the meantime, I’ll continue to try to live in a way that ensures I’ll have countless stories to share when that day finally arrives.

-j🌻