"say everything"

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Regret is a common emotion after losing a loved one, especially if you didn’t get the chance to say what you truly wanted before they passed. I’ve read stories of people whose last words to their loved ones were spoken in anger during an argument or who realized too late that their final opportunity to connect was a missed phone call because life got in the way. When that person is gone, the weight of missed opportunities—or the absence of any opportunity at all—can leave you berating yourself, wishing for just one more chance to say what you feel.

I fall into this category of regretting unspoken words, particularly when it comes to my aunt—my mom’s twin sister—who passed away unexpectedly. I’ll share more about her in the "Unexpected Passings" section.

terminal illnesses:

One of the few "silver linings" of a terminal illness diagnosis is that it often gives you some sense of when a person might pass. While it doesn’t take away the pain, it provides the certainty that the end is coming—it’s just a matter of when.

With my mom, we were told that life expectancy can vary for everyone with her diagnosis. The oncologists didn’t provide an exact number, which I understood, but research indicated a general expectancy of 3-5 years with treatment. Even though I knew we were on borrowed time, it wasn’t until the final week of her life that I had the more serious, meaningful conversations with her. Some of those talks were incredibly difficult, but they were absolutely worth it, as I felt certain she knew how much I love her—and always will.

I was also honored to read her heartfelt messages from those who loved her. While it was emotional and challenging, it was rewarding to share that love with her in her final days. I fully recognize that not everyone has the chance to say what they need to, and I want to emphasize how deeply grateful and fortunate I am. This paragraph is not written with any malice or to appear smug—it’s simply my reflection on a rare and precious opportunity.

After my mom’s passing, I reflected on our conversations. While I felt at peace with most of what we discussed, a part of me couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. I kept wondering if there was one topic I hadn’t addressed—something I knew she would have worried about after her passing (and I’ll leave it at that for now). My mind spiraled into the "what if" questions.

To pull myself out of that spiral, I decided to try a technique I’d read about in grief books, one I had also used with my aunt: speaking out loud to my mom, saying the things I wish I had said. Though my views on the afterlife are mixed, I do find comfort in imagining that my mom is still with me, listening to me. (I like to think she sometimes jokes, "Jess, I love you, but please—go to sleep already!")

It brings me peace to think that if she can see me, she knows I’m living in a way she’d be proud of, doing what I know she would want for me. Over time, I’ve let go of the "what ifs" about the things I didn’t say before she passed.

In my experience, it can be incredibly beneficial and freeing to express what you need to say, even after someone has passed. Whether it’s out loud, in a letter, or through an email, finding a way to communicate those words can bring a sense of relief.

unexpected passings:

I also used this "speaking out loud" technique with my aunt, who passed away unexpectedly in 2021.

In the waves of grief, while supporting my mom through the loss of her twin, I realized that I, too, had been robbed of the chance to say goodbye to my aunt—to let her know how much she was loved and to express my sympathy for the hardships she endured. Of course, I had told her I loved her before her passing and did my best to support her through the challenges she faced, but it still hit me hard when I realized I hadn’t been able to say goodbye or tell her one last time how much I loved her. I also regretted not reaching out when I had thought about it—just a few days before or the week leading up to her passing.

In the midst of that overwhelming regret, I began speaking out loud to my aunt. I told her everything I wished I could have said, and I’ve continued to communicate with her in various ways since then. As a result, I feel much less burdened by guilt, though a small part of me will always wish I could have done more to help her through certain hardships. Still, it brings me comfort to know that she and my mom are once again reunited.

don't wait, say everything now if you can:

I also write this entry to encourage you to say what you need to say to your loved ones now. Don’t wait, because life is unpredictable, and you never know what might come your way. We often believe we have more time than we actually do.

However, if you missed the opportunity, please don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m certain your loved one wouldn’t want you to carry that guilt. I believe they’d rather you still express what you wanted to say—whether out loud or in writing. The important thing is finding a way to get those words out, from you to them.

-j🌻

"afraid of forgetting"

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I don’t remember much from my childhood—or even from just five years ago. My memories tend to come in fragments: a few specific events or a vague, generalized feeling that sums up an entire period of my life, usually defined by schools or jobs. What makes my memory even more peculiar is how I often recall things in the third person, as though I’m watching someone else’s life unfold. It’s strange, almost as if those memories don’t truly belong to me.

One day, I mentioned to my mom how I don’t remember much from my childhood and how I often recall memories as if I’m watching them from the outside. She paused for a moment and then asked me, “Will you forget me after I’m gone?” Her question caught me off guard, and I quickly reassured her, “I could never forget you—how could I?”

After her passing, as I navigated the unpredictable waves of grief, a troubling thought began to take hold: what if I did forget her? What if she became just another vague, distant memory, one I could only recall in third person? The idea was deeply upsetting, and though I tried to reassure myself that it wouldn’t happen, the comfort I sought always seemed just out of reach.

During the years I had the honor of being one of her caregivers, I often found myself studying her face and every little detail about her. I wanted to commit it all to memory. I treated each day as though it could be our last together, making a conscious effort to truly see her every time I looked at her. Even at night, before heading upstairs, I’d pause to wish her goodnight, always glancing back to meet her eyes one more time. Deep down, I knew that someday, she wouldn’t be there.

Early in my grief therapy sessions, I shared with my wonderful therapist my deep fear of forgetting my mom and the way my memories seem fragmented—or sometimes absent altogether. I told her that, deep down, I knew I could never truly forget her, but the relentless "what ifs" kept gnawing at my mind. I also admitted that I didn’t want to lose the memories of the week leading up to her passing, even though some moments had initially triggered vivid and painful flashbacks. I understood that forgetting can be the brain’s way of shielding us from pain, but I was determined to hold onto everything—no matter how much it hurt.

During one of our sessions, my therapist suggested I start writing down my memories. She also recommended a few guided journals and books on grief to help me process everything. One journal I found particularly helpful was A Daughter's Grief Journal: Daily Prompts and Exercises for Navigating the Loss of Your Mother (Link).

Inspired by her advice, I also researched free, private online journaling apps that work seamlessly across both mobile and desktop. After exploring a few options, I started using Goodnight Journal (Link), which I highly recommend for anyone looking for a convenient and secure way to document their thoughts.

One of the first steps I took to preserve my memories was writing a letter to myself in the journaling app. I also emailed a copy of it to ensure it was saved. In that letter, I detailed everything I could remember about the entire week leading up to her passing. It took time to complete, as I was still grappling with vivid flashbacks, but I’m so grateful I wrote it all down.

I also started a private "book" within Goodnight Journal—a collection of entries organized under one category—where I documented other memories and my emotions as they came. Interestingly, after my mom’s passing, I noticed memories from my childhood starting to resurface, as though they had been waiting to be uncovered.

If you’re someone who fears forgetting a loved one or the moments surrounding their passing, I highly recommend writing down everything you remember. You don’t have to revisit what you’ve written right away—or even ever—but knowing those memories are preserved in written form can bring a sense of comfort and security.

For me, documenting my memories has given me peace of mind. I no longer feel like they’re slipping away. If you have photos or videos, those can also be incredibly helpful in keeping memories alive. They’ve been a valuable part of my journey, too.

-j🌻

"needing more time off work"

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The topic of returning to work often comes up in the online grief groups I’m part of. Many people feel they’re not ready to go back, but their job won’t grant them more time off, which is incredibly frustrating. On the other hand, some are eager to return to work because it helps them avoid fixating on their grief and gets them back into a routine. If that approach works for you, that’s wonderful!

Then there are others who are fortunate enough to take more time off work and feel they truly need it, only to be subtly criticized for doing so. It’s never stated outright, but the message is clear: they’re made to feel weak and pressured to "get over it."

As someone whose job was incredibly supportive during my mom’s cancer and passing, I consider myself very lucky. However, I did receive some judgment from a few people when I mentioned needing more time off (though not from my employer). It was clear they weren’t thrilled that I was able to take that time for myself.

I noticed a significant difference between the people who genuinely believed it would be best for me to return to work and split up my bereavement time, and those who seemed to resent me for being allowed extra time off. The latter often focused on how they didn’t receive any bereavement time and had to return to work the next day, or how they were only given a few days and had to go back. Despite explaining that I needed more time due to the acute grief I was experiencing—along with flashbacks of my mom’s passing and the days leading up to it—it didn’t seem to matter. Because they had to endure minimal to no time to grieve, it felt like I should suffer the same way.

I didn’t listen to them, and I’m so glad I didn’t. When I finally returned to work, I was in a better place emotionally and mentally than I had been before.

Ultimately, if you’re able to take more time off work and feel you need it, I say go for it. Don’t let anyone’s judgment or negative comments sway your decision. You have to do what’s best for you and your grieving process.

-j🌻

(Please note, I’m fully aware of the privilege I had in being able to take more time off. Not everyone has that opportunity, and I don’t take it for granted. I’m incredibly grateful to my employer and boss for their empathy, support, and flexibility during that time.)