Thoughts In Her Light

January 26th was the day my beautiful mother went to heaven.

Tomorrow will mark three weeks without her here.

Yesterday, we celebrated her life at The Church of the Good Shepherd.

I felt like I had been bracing myself for this moment for three weeks. Slowly working up the courage to be present for my family and friends. Slowly trying to prepare to step back into the real world — where I work every day, pay bills, show up for others. Trying to put one foot in front of the other so my life could continue in a way that honors my mom.

Nothing prepared me for yesterday.

I felt relief. Despair. Gratitude. Loneliness. All of it layered on top of each other.

The Sign I Didn’t Expect

I had secretly been hoping for one of those “signs” people talk about. The little reminders that your loved one is still near.

As I was getting my makeup done by a dear friend, he had a random Sam Smith Pandora station playing in the background. Right as he was finishing up, a song came on.

It was my mom’s favorite song.

A dirty rap song that she and I would scream-sing together. The kind of song that sounds absolutely unhinged and vulgar to anyone else. The kind that was kind of our secret joke because it was so ridiculous.

We both just froze.

Then we started laughing and crying at the same time.

I thought, this is SO my mom.

It wasn’t some soft angelic worship song. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic.

It was inappropriate and hilarious.

And I could feel her.

For a few minutes, peace filled my entire body. The tightness in my chest softened. It felt like she was saying, “I’m here, baby. Don’t take this all so seriously.”

Walking Into Reality

We gathered at the church shortly after.

I walked in before most people arrived. It was quiet. Just flowers, her urn, soft music playing.

That’s when reality hit.

My mom is really gone.

My everything.

During the service, I kept staring at the urn thinking, damn… my mom is in there lol. Even typing that feels surreal.

I was bawling the entire time. I’d glance at my grandpa — who just lost his daughter — trying so hard to hold it together. My dad, who lost the love of his life. Watching their grief hurt as much as my own.

I never once looked at the crowd during the service because I was barely holding myself together.

But as we walked out at the end, I had to.

And there were about 300 people there.

Three hundred.

I lost it all over again.

Because that many people showed up for her.

That many people loved my mom.

And that many people showed up for my family and I. 

Running to the People Who Knew Me Before

After the service, we gathered at one of my mom’s dear friend’s homes.

But it wasn’t really about the house.

It was about the people in it.

Friends from my childhood were there — the ones who knew me before I knew who I was trying to become. Before titles. Before trauma. Before adult heartbreak. Before cancer.

They knew me when my biggest problem was homework or who I was sitting next to at lunch.

And being around them felt like my body exhaled for the first time all day.

Grief has this way of making you want to run backward. Not because you want to relive the past — but because you want to feel held by something familiar.

Yesterday, I realized it wasn’t the place I was running to.

It was the people.

It was being in a room with people who shared history with my mom. Who loved her in loud kitchens and messy living rooms. Who knew the sound of her laugh long before hospital monitors replaced it.

People who knew my family dynamic without explanation.

Who didn’t need context.

Who didn’t need me to update them.

They just knew.

And in grief, being known without having to explain yourself is everything.

I didn’t have to be strong.

I didn’t have to host.

I didn’t have to say the right thing.

I could just exist.

And they held me up in that.

The Weight of Support

Grief is strange because it makes you feel completely alone… while being completely surrounded.

At moments during the gathering, I’d look around and think, how is the world still spinning? How are people laughing? How is food being served? How am I standing here without her?

And then someone would grab my hand.

Or hug me tighter.

Or look at me with eyes that said, “We’ve got you.”

Support doesn’t take the pain away.

But it makes the pain survivable.

I’ve always been the one who shows up. The strong one. The helper. The counselor. The one who can sit in other people’s pain.

Yesterday, I had to let people sit in mine.

And that may have been the hardest part.

Three Weeks Without Her

Tomorrow marks three weeks without her here.

Three weeks of waking up and remembering.

Three weeks of reaching for my phone and stopping.

Three weeks of realizing I don’t get to call her and tell her funny stories anymore.

But yesterday showed me something.

My mom’s love didn’t end in that urn.

It’s in 300 people who showed up.

It’s in childhood friends who held me upright.

It’s in a dirty rap song playing at the exact right moment.

It’s in every hug that felt like home.

I don’t know how to do life without her yet.

But I know I’m not doing it alone.

And somehow, that’s enough for today.