It's hard to believe it's been a year.
I know people say that all the time, but I genuinely don't know where the year went. At the same time, when I look back at everything that's happened since my mom passed away, it feels impossible that all of it fit into twelve months.
A few days before she died, she wasn't feeling well. She wasn't eating much, and my dad was worried. I called her the night before and said, "Mom, you've got to eat something." She said, “Okay."
That was the conversation.
At the time, there was nothing remarkable about it. It was just one of a thousand conversations we'd had over the years, and I didn't know it would be the last one.
The next day, I checked in with my dad. I was doing Block Therapy and waiting for him to text me back. When my phone buzzed, I expected a normal update. Instead, it said, "Honey, I think your mom passed away."
Even now, writing those words feels strange.
You know, intellectually, that your parents won't live forever. It's a reality that sits somewhere in the background for years, but knowing something and experiencing it are completely different things. What I remember most is how ordinary the day felt until it didn't.
It was a Monday.
There was nothing about that morning that suggested my life was about to change. Over the last year, I've thought about that a lot. The biggest moments in our lives rarely announce themselves. They often arrive in the middle of a normal day when we're busy doing something else.
The year that followed wasn't quiet. Not long after my mom passed away, my dad ended up dealing with heart failure. My husband and I bought a house. We renovated. I navigated major changes in my career. There were decisions to make, problems to solve, and plenty of moments when I wasn't entirely sure what came next.
Looking back, I think part of what made this year so difficult is that there wasn't much time to recover from one thing before the next thing arrived.
Loss has a way of changing the landscape around you. Sometimes the change is obvious. Other times it's the accumulation of a hundred small things that weren't part of the plan.
One thing I tell my therapist all the time is that every day I live with uncertainty and discomfort. It's not a fun place to be, especially for someone with anxiety. I'm getting more used to it, but that doesn't mean it's easy.
There are days when I'd love to wake up and feel settled. To feel like everything is figured out and everyone I care about is okay. Instead, I've had to get comfortable with not having all the answers. Some days I do that better than others.
At the same time, there is a lot to be grateful for. I look around this house and think about how much work has gone into making it a home. I think about my husband, who has walked through every one of these changes with me. I think about my dad, who joins us for dinner and is slowly figuring out what the next chapter of his life looks like.
One conversation with my dad has stayed with me. People kept telling him not to make any major decisions for a year after my mom died. Don't move. Don't make big changes. Give yourself time.
Maybe that's the right advice for some people. What I've come to realize is that grief doesn't move according to a calendar.
My dad and I have processed this loss differently. My brother and I have processed it differently. Even within the same family, there isn't a single way to grieve. My dad has told me that he's only recently started getting used to the fact that my mom isn't here anymore. My brother spent Mother's Day visiting where her ashes are kept, bringing flowers and a card. I didn't.
Neither approach is right or wrong. They're simply different.
Over the last year, I've become less interested in how grief is supposed to look and more interested in allowing people to experience it however they need to.
For me, grief often shows up in small moments. My mom loved birdwatching. After moving into this house, I put up bird feeders around the yard. One of the shepherd hooks came from my parents' house, and over time I've gotten used to seeing all kinds of birds stop by.
There's a cardinal that visits regularly. Cardinals were always my mom's favorite. I don't spend much time trying to decide what that means. I just know that every time I see it, I think of her.
Sometimes that's enough.
A lot has happened this year, and much of it has been difficult, some exciting, and most of it simply exhausting.
There are still moments when the loss catches me off guard. I'll think of something I want to tell my mom and then remember I can't. I'll hear a story, solve a problem, finish a project, or walk through a room in this house and find myself wishing I could share it with her.
The sadness isn't as sharp as it was a year ago, but it hasn't disappeared either. A year sounds like a long time until you've lived it.
Then you realize a year can hold a lot. It can hold loss and gratitude, fear and excitement, change and uncertainty. It can hold the experience of becoming someone slightly different than you were before.
I miss my mom. I suspect I always will. And while a lot has changed over the last year, that part hasn't.
