"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🌻