Life after losing a Mom
Our last Christmas together 6 months before she passed.
What Losing Your Mother Feels Like
The morning of September 3, 2019, is a day etched into my soul. I woke up like it was any other workday, but something in me felt... wrong. I told my husband as much, though I couldn’t articulate the heaviness that sat in my chest. It was like a quiet storm brewing inside—a mix of calm, panic, and foreboding.
I went to work and clocked in as usual, but that sense of unease didn’t lift. At around 9:00 AM, my world unraveled. My father called and said words I’ll never forget: “Your mom stopped breathing, and they’re trying to bring her back now.” It felt like the ground beneath me disintegrated. My vision blurred, my chest tightened, and my hearing faded into the background as I tried to process his words.
Minutes later, I was on FaceTime with my dad when the doctors declared her gone. My mom—the woman whose love shaped my existence—was no longer here. I broke into uncontrollable sobs, the full weight of her absence crashing over me like a tidal wave. It’s a pain I’ll carry forever, one that’s difficult to put into words.
Losing your mother feels like living in a world that’s suddenly off balance. Life becomes eerily quiet, almost surreal. You exist because of her, and now she’s gone. It’s as if a part of you is missing, leaving you exposed and raw. In the beginning, I felt like a newborn, naked and vulnerable, trying to navigate a reality where she no longer existed.
My mom’s battle with congestive heart failure had been a long one. Her heart was functioning at only 10% even with a pacemaker. Six months before she passed, doctors told me about a blood clot they couldn’t remove. They sent her home on hospice, and we were left to wait, not knowing how much time she had. I spent those months trying to prepare myself for the inevitable, but nothing truly prepares you for the loss of someone so integral to your existence.
Most daughters have the traditional mother-daughter experiences: spa days, heart-to-heart talks, and shared milestones. My relationship with my mom was different. My mom had schizophrenia, which limited her ability to be the mother I know she wanted to be. Despite her struggles, she showed us love in the ways she could. She visited us, called us, and celebrated our birthdays. Even when my dad fell short, my mom would hop on a bus to be there. Her love was unwavering, even if her circumstances were far from ideal.
But losing her wasn’t just about losing her physical presence. It meant mourning the relationship we never had—the mother I wished for as a child. That little girl inside me who yearned for those moments died too. It’s a unique kind of grief, one that feels endless and impossible to put down. Some days, I carry it like a weight too heavy for my arms, unsure of where to place it.
Now, as a mother to my two daughters, including Zara, who just turned four, I’ve found new layers to my grief. I see my mom in their faces and feel her love in the moments I share with them. Zara’s journey, from her premature birth to her Down syndrome diagnosis, has deepened my compassion for my mom. I think about the love she must have felt for us, even when her illness made it hard to express it. It’s a bittersweet revelation—knowing she loved us but couldn’t be the mother she wanted to be. That thought often brings me to tears.
Losing my mom has forever changed me. I’ve become more empathetic, understanding the weight of loss in a way I never did before. Grief doesn’t follow a linear path. There are no rules. Some days are harder than others, but I’ve learned to lean into the pain instead of running from it. Morning walks, journaling, singing to my mom, and watching videos of her help me cope. Each day, I strive to be the mother I wished for as a child—to give my daughters the love and stability my mom fought so hard to provide in her own way.
To those walking this path of grief, my heart is with you. It’s a journey of unimaginable pain, but also one of resilience. May God grant you peace and comfort as you navigate life without someone so precious. And may we all hold on to the hope that one day, we’ll meet our loved ones again on the other side of eternity.
Love always,
Melissa
