It has Been Eleven years since my mother died!

It has been eleven years since my mother died.

Eleven years without either of my parents.

Our Wedding 2005

1986

And still, some days, it feels as though I am standing in that room again—alone beside her, watching and waiting for the end to come.

The day my mother died was filled with emotions that did not make sense together. Grief sat beside relief. Love beside anger. Sorrow beside exhaustion. There were moments of tenderness tangled together with memories that still hurt. I remember feeling guilty for the ways my heart could not settle on one emotion, as if mourning was supposed to be simple and pure. But it was never simple.

Death does not suddenly untangle a complicated relationship. It does not erase childhood wounds, unanswered questions, or years of longing for things that never fully existed. Instead, all of it arrives together in the same room. The love. The hurt. The hope. The disappointment. The ache for what was, and the ache for what never became.

I remember watching her breathe, wondering which breath would be the last. Time moved strangely in that room. Every second felt heavy. I was no longer just a daughter—I had become the witness to her leaving this world. There is something profoundly lonely about sitting beside death, especially when the relationship itself carried loneliness long before that moment.

I sat there trying to remember a time when she loved me—truly loved me—or wanted me.

And I had none.

No memory came rushing back. No warm moment appeared to soften the silence in my mind. I searched anyway, desperately, as though somewhere inside me there had to be proof that I had once been held gently, wanted fully, loved without condition.

But even with that emptiness sitting inside me, I still wanted my mother.

That is the part people do not always understand. A child does not stop longing for their mother simply because love was inconsistent, absent, painful, or never given in the way it should have been. The ache remains anyway. Deep and instinctive. Almost impossible to explain.

As I sat beside her in those final hours, I remember thinking how strange it was to grieve someone while also grieving what I never had with them. I was mourning her death, but I was also mourning the relationship I spent my whole life hoping would someday become real.

I wanted one memory to hold onto.
One moment where I felt chosen.
One moment where I knew, without question, that I was loved.

But sometimes the hardest truth is realizing that the child inside you kept surviving on hope instead of evidence.

And still, even then, I wanted my mother to reach for me.
I wanted her to say something that could heal the years between us.
I wanted, even at the end, to finally feel like someone’s daughter.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in realizing that the longing for a mother can survive even when the memories do not.

I still ache for someone to hold me the way I hold my own children.
To wrap their arms around me without hesitation.
To listen without rushing me.
To guide me without conditions, limits, or fear that love might suddenly disappear.

Sometimes I watch the way I comfort my children—the way I pull them close when they are hurting, the way I stop what I am doing to truly hear them—and I realize that somewhere deep inside me is the child who still wonders what it would have felt like to receive that same kind of care.

Not perfection.
Just safety.
Just softness.
Just someone who stayed.

I think the hardest part is that I want to be held just as tightly. I want to feel whatever my children feel when I wrap my arms around them and tell them everything is going to be okay.

And sometimes I wonder—who does that for me?

Yes, I have Ken. My husband. My best friend. The person who has stood beside me through so much. His love is real, steady, and faithful. I am deeply grateful for him.

But the love between a husband and wife is different from the love a mother gives a child.

A spouse walks beside you.
A mother, at least the kind I longed for, is supposed to be the place you fall apart without fear.

There is something so primal about wanting to be mothered. Wanting someone to look at you and see not what you can do for them, not how strong you are, not how capable you have become—but simply see you as someone worth protecting, comforting, and carrying when life becomes too heavy.

I think that is why the ache still lives inside me.

Because I became strong before I was ever held.
Responsible before I was nurtured.
Independent before I ever felt safe enough to depend on anyone.

And even now, as an adult, there are moments when I want to crawl into someone’s arms and rest without guilt. To not be the strong one for once. To not have to explain why I am hurting. To simply be cared for with the same tenderness I try to pour into my own children every day.

My grandmother—my mother’s mother—was the closest thing I will ever know to that kind of love.

And she did love me. I know she did.

But even with her, there was always a line. A limit to how much of herself she could fully give me. Not because she was cruel. Not because she withheld love intentionally. But because before she was ever my grandmother, she was my mother’s mother first.

Her heart was tied to her daughter in a way I could never untangle.

I think one of the deepest pains was watching my grandmother love my mother with the kind of devotion I spent my whole life longing for myself. She protected her. Defended her. Carried compassion for her wounds, her struggles, her pain. And part of me understood that. A mother’s love for her child runs deep.

But I was a child too.

And sometimes it felt as though there was no place for both truths to exist at once—that my mother could be hurting and still hurt me, that my grandmother could love me deeply while never being fully able to step outside her loyalty to her daughter.

So I learned to live within the limits of that love.

I took the comfort she could give. The moments of safety. The glimpses of warmth. I treasured them because they were real. But somewhere inside me, I also understood that there were places my grief could not go with her. Certain truths that sat too close to the pain of her own child.

That kind of loneliness is hard to explain.

To be loved, but not fully held.
To be cared for, but still emotionally orphaned in some quiet way.
To know someone wanted the best for you while also knowing they could never entirely stand on your side without it feeling like a betrayal of someone else they loved first.

And yet, I still carry gratitude for her.

Because even limited love can leave light behind.
Even imperfect love can become a lifeline for a child trying desperately to survive.

But I would be lying if I said it did not ache sometimes—to realize that my grandmother loved her daughter with the kind of fierce, unquestioning love I spent my entire childhood hoping someone would someday give to me.

Sometimes I want to scream from the top of a mountain for someone to help me.

Not because I am falling apart in some dramatic, visible way. Most people would probably say I am doing well. I work. I teach. I parent. I love my family. I keep moving forward.

But underneath all of that is this ache I cannot fully explain.

An exhaustion that does not come from one bad day, but from a lifetime of carrying myself.

And the hardest part is that I am not even sure what I need.

I do not know if I want someone to save me, comfort me, guide me, or simply sit beside me and finally notice how heavy everything has been. Sometimes I think I just want permission to stop being strong for a little while.

Because when you grow up without being emotionally held, you learn how to survive by becoming your own protector, your own comfort, your own caretaker. You become the person everyone else can lean on while quietly wondering where you are supposed to go with your own pain.

So the feelings build in silence.

The grief.
The loneliness.
The longing.
The exhaustion of always being the one who manages, adapts, survives, and keeps going.

And sometimes it rises so suddenly inside me that I feel like screaming into the sky:

“Can someone please help me?”
“Can someone please see me?”
“Can someone please hold the parts of me that have been carrying too much for too long?”

But even then, I do not always know what help would look like.

Because what I ache for is not something that can be neatly fixed.

I ache for the kind of safety that is supposed to begin in childhood.
The kind of love that teaches your nervous system it is okay to rest.
The kind of care that allows a child to believe they do not have to earn tenderness.

And when you grow up without that, part of you keeps searching for it long after childhood ends.

I think that is what people misunderstand about trauma. Survival does not mean the longing disappears. Sometimes surviving only means you learned how to function while carrying an invisible hunger for comfort, protection, and unconditional love.

There are days I envy the ease with which my children collapse into my arms when they are hurt. They do not hesitate. They do not apologize for needing comfort. They trust completely that I will hold them.

I wonder what that must feel like.

To need someone and not fear becoming a burden.
To cry and know someone will come.
To rest without waiting for love to be withdrawn.

Sometimes I think the little girl inside me is still standing somewhere with her arms open, waiting for someone to finally say,

“You do not have to do this alone anymore.”

There are days when it feels like this is not just a wound, but a missing part of who I am.

Not something broken that can simply be repaired, but something that was never fully given to me in the first place.

People often speak about healing as though every pain eventually closes neatly with time, love, or understanding. But some losses are different. Some grief comes not from losing what you had, but from never truly having it at all.

And how do you fully heal from the absence of something your heart needed in order to grow safely?

I do not know if that ache will ever completely disappear.

There is still a part of me that feels unfinished. A quiet emptiness where a mother’s comfort, protection, and unconditional love were supposed to live. Sometimes I think I carry that absence everywhere I go. It follows me into motherhood, into relationships, into the way I question myself, overthink everything, and struggle to believe I am worthy of being cared for without conditions.

It is hard to explain to people who were loved gently as children.

The absence becomes part of your identity.
Part of the way you see the world.
Part of the way your body holds fear, loneliness, and longing.

And maybe the hardest truth is realizing that some wounds do not heal by disappearing. Some wounds heal by learning how to live beside them without letting them consume every part of you.

I do not think the little girl inside me will ever completely stop searching for the mother she needed.

But I also know this:

That missing piece did not stop me from becoming loving.
It did not stop me from becoming gentle.
It did not stop me from becoming the safe place I once searched for in someone else.

Sometimes I look at my children and realize they will never fully understand the depth of what they were given simply by being held, heard, comforted, and loved consistently. And part of me is grateful for that. They should never have to understand that kind of emptiness firsthand.

There are still moments when the grief feels bottomless. Moments when I wonder who I might have become if I had been loved differently from the beginning.

But even in that sorrow, there is something sacred in the fact that I chose not to pass the emptiness forward.

The ache may always live inside me.
The longing may never fully leave.

But so does grace.
So does love.
So does the quiet courage of becoming the kind of mother I once needed myself.

I hold them when they cry.
I listen when they speak.
I apologize when I am wrong.
I stay.

And sometimes, in those quiet moments when my children rest safely against me, I grieve and heal at the same time.

Because somewhere deep inside me is still the little girl who wanted someone to hold her like this too.

The Honor of Being There at the End

When a very close friend of mine recently lost her father, I watched her step into that sacred, disorienting space between grief and responsibility, planning a funeral, making decisions through tears, trying to steady herself while her world tilted. As she prepared for his final arrangements, something in me stirred. Her loss brought back the memories I keep tucked away, memories of the people whose final breaths I have witnessed, the rooms I have sat in, the silence I’ve felt settle after life slips quietly out of the body.

Watching her navigate those first days of grief made me look back on all the endings I’ve lived through…
All the hands I’ve sat beside.
All the breaths I’ve watched slow.
All the holy silences I’ve felt fill a room after a life comes to its close.

It made me realize that death has woven itself through my life in ways I never sought, never expected, and never fully understood — but ways that shaped me deeply.

I was fourteen years old when I sat beside my grandfather as he took his final breath. At that age, death was still a distant idea — something whispered about, something adults shielded children from, something that lived more in stories than in reality. I didn’t understand what it meant to be present in someone’s last moments. I didn’t recognize the sacredness of it, the heaviness, or the quiet honor that comes with being trusted to stand at the border between here and whatever comes next.

All I knew was that my grandfather — the man whose hands smelled like soil and whose laugh could shake the dust off the rafters — suddenly grew still. The room shifted. It wasn’t empty; it was full of a silence that felt almost holy. I didn’t understand it then, but with time, I’ve learned to recognize that feeling.

It is the moment heaven brushes against earth.

That was my first time witnessing death, but it would not be my last. Life, in its unpredictable way, would bring me again and again to the bedside of the dying. I didn’t ask for it, didn’t plan for it, and certainly didn’t expect it — but somehow, I always ended up being the one who stayed when others stepped away.

Before my mother’s death, before the long nights and the complicated grief, there was my father — a relationship woven with its own shadows and contradictions.

In the five years before he died, my father had changed. In 2000, he went blind, and something in him softened in the years that followed. The anger that once lived so close to the surface began to fade. The sharp edges of his temper mellowed. It was as if losing his sight forced him to see life differently — to slow down, to let go of some of the bitterness he carried, to reach for gentleness in ways he never had before. He wasn’t the same man I had grown up afraid of. Blindness reshaped him into someone more patient, more reflective, more human.

And then, in 2014, he died suddenly — a massive heart attack that shattered every illusion of time, preparation, or warning. There were no final hours, no whispered goodbyes, no hand to hold or chair to sit beside. One moment he was alive; the next he was gone. The shock was absolute.

Both my brother and I insisted on seeing his body, not out of morbid curiosity, but because we needed proof — something physical, something undeniable-to make the news real. Grief can make the mind argue with reality, and standing beside him was the only way we could convince ourselves that this was truly happening.

The impact of that moment lived in me long after the funeral ended. His death taught me how abrupt life can be, how fragile, how suddenly the world can tilt — and how sometimes it never tilts back.

A year later, my mother began her own slow decline, and the contrast between the two deaths weighed heavily on me. My father vanished in an instant. My mother faded over time. One death gave me no chance to say goodbye. The other gave me time I didn’t want, but couldn’t ignore.

Of all the losses I’ve lived through, none reshaped me more than the night my mother died.

For most of my life, I hated my mother. Not the kind of temporary teenage anger that fades with maturity, but a deep, bone-level hatred born from years of wounds carved into me long before I knew what the word “mother” was supposed to mean. She harmed me in ways that still echo through my adulthood. She fractured my childhood, twisted my sense of belonging, and reshaped how I understood love and safety.

That hatred became armor. It felt like protection. It felt like power — the only power I had left after surviving her. I convinced myself that hating her freed me from her.

But when she began dying, something unexpected stirred inside me — something quiet, instinctive, and impossible to name. She should not die alone.

Maybe my father’s sudden death had taught me that you don’t always get a chance to be there. Maybe I couldn’t bear the thought of another person leaving this world without anyone sitting witness. Or maybe, despite everything she had done, some small remnant of the child I once was still wanted to show up in the only way I knew how.

I didn’t go because she deserved it.
I didn’t go because forgiveness had suddenly bloomed in me.
I went because some stubborn part of my soul refused to let anyone cross that threshold alone.

At the same time, life was pulling me in another direction — one that had nothing to do with death and everything to do with protecting life. My youngest was very sick then, struggling with a lung infection that required breathing treatments every four hours, around the clock. We were exhausted. The days blurred together in alarms, nebulizers, worry, and very little sleep. I had left my mother’s side to go home, help give the next treatment, and rest for just a moment.

But I couldn’t stay away.

Something inside me — stronger than exhaustion, stronger than fear, stronger than the years of distance between us — pulled me back. I felt it like a tug in my chest, a knowing heavier than logic. I remember standing at home after the breathing treatment, watching my son finally drift into a fragile sleep, and realizing I needed to return to her bedside.

It didn’t make sense.
It didn’t feel comfortable.
But it felt necessary.

There is a strange kind of clarity that comes when you sit beside someone who once broke you. The anger didn’t magically disappear. The hurt didn’t resolve itself in some storybook ending. But in those final hours, the woman in that bed was no longer the force that had shaped my pain. She was just a human being — fragile, failing, and facing the same silence we will all one day face.

I could not bring myself to touch her, so I just sat next to her bedside — close enough to witness her final breaths, but not close enough to bridge the years of distance that lay between us.

I didn’t hold her hand.
I didn’t whisper forgiveness.
I didn’t pretend the past hadn’t happened.

I simply stayed.

And staying changed me.

Watching my mother die forced me to confront a truth I had avoided for years: hatred is not freedom. It binds you as tightly as love does. Sitting with her — without touching her, without offering a comfort I didn’t have — loosened a chain I had been dragging for most of my life. It didn’t break. It didn’t vanish. But it shifted, just enough for me to breathe differently.

Her final breath did not redeem her.
But it released me.

And that is its own kind of mercy.

Then, in 2019, came the loss that felt different from all the others — the loss of the woman who had been the closest thing I ever had to a mother.

My grandmother’s decline began after a fall. A simple, everyday moment that changed everything. The fall led to tests. The tests led to answers none of us were ready for: cancer. At ninety-four, she was too tired and too wise for the brutality of chemotherapy. She chose peace, not battle. She chose comfort, not suffering. I honored her choice.

So she came home on hospice.

I wanted to be by her side every second. I didn’t want to leave her room, her house, or even the sound of her breathing. I wanted to return every ounce of gentleness she had poured into me during my childhood — all the meals, all the quiet reassurances, all the love she gave without being asked.

But life wasn’t simple anymore.
I wasn’t just a granddaughter.
I was a mother — pulled between the woman who once protected me and the children I was now raising.

And those children loved her deeply, too.

She had been a big part of their lives — not just mine. She had held them, spoken to them, laughed with them, and prayed for them. She gave them the same steady, unconditional love she once gave me. What better way to honor that bond than by allowing them to be part of this process? To let them see that death, when met with love, is not something to hide from.

And they understood it in ways adults sometimes can’t.

My son — still so young, still full of softness and sincerity — would climb into bed beside her, curling against her as though his small warmth could somehow protect her. He would snuggle into her side and tell me, with a child’s pure faith, that he wanted to stay with Grandma until she went to heaven. He didn’t fear her frailty. He didn’t fear death. He saw only love.

My children gained so much from being around her in those final days. They learned compassion not from lessons, but from presence. They learned that goodbye is not something to run from, but something to honor. They learned that love doesn’t disappear when a body grows weak — it becomes more visible.

When her final moment came, I was there.

I sat beside her as she took her last breath, and once again I felt that holy silence settle into the room — the same sacred, unmistakable quiet I had felt with my grandfather so many years before. A peace that wrapped itself around us like a blanket.

After she passed, I helped dress her in clean clothes. It was the last act of care I could offer her — the last way to honor the woman who had clothed me in love my entire life. My hands shook, but my heart felt steady. Tenderness has its own strength.

I stayed with her until they came to collect her for cremation. I refused to let her be alone — not even for a moment. I stayed because she had stayed for me. I stayed because love deserved a witness. I stayed because letting her go was both the hardest and the holiest thing I have ever done.

Each death taught me something different.
Each goodbye carried its own truth.

Most people talk about death as if it is only darkness — fear and sorrow, and loss. But being there when someone leaves this world carries something else too, something quieter but far more powerful.

It is a privilege.
A duty.
A moment of profound meaning.

It is witnessing the final chapter of a life that mattered.
It is standing guard over the last breath someone will ever take.
It is offering presence when every other form of comfort has run out.

For me, death has become a teacher.
Not a cruel one — though grief can be cruel — but an honest one.

Death has taught me that love is not erased by pain.
Death has taught me that showing up is sometimes the most powerful thing we can do.
Death has taught me that even the most wounded hearts carry the capacity for mercy.
And death has taught me that being present — even silently, even with complicated feelings — is its own kind of grace.

I was fourteen when I first felt that thin, holy moment where life gives way to something beyond it. I didn’t understand it then. I barely understand it now. But I do know this:

Being there when someone leaves the world is an honor.
Even when the person hurt you.
Even when your heart is conflicted.
Even when the past sits between you like a wall.

Presence still matters.

And sometimes, being the one who stays is what finally allows you to let go.

Grief support group week 2 and 3 and updates on the family.

Sophie:

So I have been going back to the grief support group and proud of myself for doing so. It has been a little over whelming but also has brought me some relief as well. This is the first time that I have ever been in a support group with people that I know and also know my family and at first I was not sure if I should be a part of the group because of that but I have stuck it out and have shared things that I have only ever told my therapist and that part of share things to people I know has been the hardest but also the most liberating thing I have ever done. The group has been extremely supportive and have been patient with how hard this is on me and the fact that I am not good at explaining my emotions at all. It has brought up some emotions and I know that I have been extra short with Ken because talking about this always makes me edgy. But he never complains just checks in with me every now and then. Next week we focus on Spirituality and I know right now that this one is going to be a hard one on me.

The group has also mad me realize how much anger and hurt I still have towards my family and even my parents even though they are dead. My whole life I told myself I am so lucky because it could have been a lot worse but I am slowly learning that it a way I avoid having to deal with or even think about what happened. My mom played a victim and the poor me rule as long as I can remember and I never wanted to do that. I never wanted any attention. I still have a hard time with that. I am also realizing at how much I miss them. I am not sure if it is them that I miss or the fact that I missed having any parents at all. I have always just taken care of anything that I need to do no problem I just did it but now at the age of 35 I wish I had a parent to call on. I am learning that a child's relationship with a parent or caregiver in really important and do to my situation growing up neither Lewis or I have someone we can call on, we have no safety net other than each other and that is not the same and what is even harder is that I feel we are both going through a hard time in life and we can't even give support to each other. I guess that is when we turn everything over to God and have faith! God's grace is amazing and I feel it daily and thankful that it is there but still my heart is telling me one thing and head is running a non stop script in my head about the other stuff. I guess that is why this whole month has been a hard one emotionally. I have felt really sad and lonely yet I am so happy to be around Ken and the kids. With Michael's therapies I don't get out of the house as much as I want. I have also tried to get in contact with a few friends with no luck. So I guess it all adds up and my brain wont shut off.

This week I had a lot of kids in my house and I loved it. With it being the first week of school a lot of kids only go half days and get out between 12:00pm and 1:00pm. At one point each day I had 7 to 8 kids in my house all the same age! I LOVED IT!! I always wanted to have a lot of kids but that is not happening now so it was nice to have it while it lasted! I was tired and in bed at 8:30 every night but it was so much fun and I loved hearing all the laughing, playing and yes even the fighting was cute. But it was a lot for Michael and it has had a few side-affects on his sleep. Up at least 3 times a night and really grumpy and clingy to me during the day. So maybe it is good that we can not have anymore kids! I can still dream about what it would have been like though and I would have loved it. Michael would have adjusted over time! (I am not sure Ken would though) LOL

I am excited about Labor Day because we will have people over and do a BBQ and the kids can play in the water. I try to have something that I can look forward too. I need to get better about planning one thing very week so I have things to look forward

Kaylee:

Kaylee started Kindergarten and is loving it! Her teacher is amazing which is good. It is so hard for me to think of her as a kindergartner! School has only been in for a week but so far she can't wait to get there and always wants to leave early! We had back to school night and got some more info which helped us understand how they do things. 

Kaylee also lost her first tooth on Wednesday! I could not believe that it fell out. But she was so happy plus the tooth fairy came in the middle of the night!! Michael keeps asking about his teeth. I guess he wants to loss his tooth just like his big sister. She has a dentist appointment on August 31st and she can't wait to show them! 

Kaylee's Birthday is on Tuesday and she will be 5 years old!! She can't wait. I have had a hard time getting a party together for her. For some reason I am just having a hard time this year. Plus last Sunday my Aunt said some pretty hurtful things to Kaylee and I! I am still trying to process it all and figure out how to handle it all. My heart is full of sadness for Kaylee as she does not understand all the stuff that goes on in a family she just loves everyone endlessly. But this time it affected her greatly. So possessing time is needed for me to decide on what to do next. I canceled a tea party that I was going to have for the adults in her life because of all of this so to make up for that we are going to take Kaylee to her FAVORITE restaurant on her birthday!

Michael:

Michael's behaviors have gotten a lot more intense the past month and it is stressing me out a little. We meet with his ABA team and they have noticed it as well. I asked if it could be his age and some of it is probably age but most of it is sensory and  him getting overly stimulated and not knowing how to tell us or dealing with it himself. He is only 2 almost 3. He has about 3 to 4 melt downs a day and they last anywhere from 5 to 45 minutes a few have lasted hours! On top of that he has the usual temper tantrums that very 3 year old has. It is just so tiring. I need a break from him.

On the plus side Michael language is improving DAILY! He is talking clear and using more and more words. I am so thankful that communication is possible now. He also has a visual schedule that we use and that seems to help a lot with transitions. The one thing I am not good at but need to improve is prep him for things. I mean start about 30 minutes before we leave the house or get Kaylee from school. I need to tell him details of what the process will be. Example: "Michael we are going to get Kaylee from School. You will be in the stroller." (because he thinks that he gets to WALK) "so we are going to get our shoes on in 5 minutes!" And do this a few time so he knows the transition process. I have learned that some of his melt downs come from frustration of not understanding what is happening or what is expected of him. So I do my best to prep and explain both visually and verbally.

Ken:

Ken has been at Costco a year September 1st! He loves it. They asked him about being supervisor and I think he wants the position but we will see. I just happy that he loves his job and has a set schedule every week. The raises are good the personal time is great and he loves how he is treated. It is been so nice to see him happy with work. We also get to see each other a lot more too!