This month marks six years since my mother passed away. It’s hard to believe so much time has passed since I last heard her voice or got to hug her or was able to lean on her for her wisdom. Some days, it still feels like I’m catching my breath from the loss. Other days, I am able to smile at memories that once brought only tears.
Grief is not linear, and time does not heal all wounds, but it does change how we carry them.
So much has happened since she’s been gone. We lived through a global pandemic, something I never imagined experiencing in my lifetime. There were months when the world shut down that there was grief all around — not just mine, but everyone’s. The isolation of that time made my own loss feel heavier. I couldn’t call her during those uncertain days. I couldn’t ask how she got through hard times or how to comfort my children when I felt unsure myself. I missed her more than ever, but in a strange way, that collective pause also gave me space to sit with my grief and to get to know it in new ways. I imagined what she might say and how she might guide me. I leaned on her memory when I couldn’t lean on her in life.
In the early days, grief was overwhelming.
It felt like a wave that crashed over everything — it was loud and relentless. I was trying to be a mom, hold my family together, and keep moving forward while part of me felt completely broken. I missed her advice, her calm presence during chaos, and the way she made everything feel a little more manageable. She used to say, “Just put one foot in front of the other.” It was her way of reminding me that even in the hardest moments, moving forward — even slowly — still counts. Her voice echoes in my head on the days I need it most, especially during these unpredictable years.
As time has passed, grief has softened.
It hasn’t disappeared, but it no longer takes me by surprise quite as often. It’s woven into the fabric of my everyday life now; present in the way I parent, in the recipes I make, in the songs I sing with my kids, the same ones she used to sing.
Still, one of the hardest parts is knowing my children are growing up without her and she will never get the chance to see them grow in return. They’ll never know the joy of growing up with her love woven into their lives. I see glimpses of her in them sometimes — in a smile, the organization skills my daughter has acquired in her teen years, the sensitivity my son possesses — and I ache knowing they’ll never know the incredible grandmother she would have been. My grief deepens in those moments, not just for what I’ve lost, but for what they’ve lost too.
In those moments — when I see glimpses of her in my children, or feel the ache of everything she’s missed — I’m reminded that grief doesn’t stay the same. It shifts, softens, and finds quieter ways to stay close. My grief has become less about the pain of her absence and more about the echo of her love. Her words, “Just put one foot in front of the other,” still guide me.
