Skip to main content

Week 154: The 3rd Year Without You

​


To My Dearest Lily


It’s been three years since you left this world, and not a single day has passed when I haven’t thought of you—craved your little hand in mine, remembered the way your bright blue eyes sparkled, or felt that familiar lift inside me when you smiled. You brought so much life into our lives, and in your absence the silence has become its own presence.


People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but that word fonder doesn’t come close to what I feel. I crave you the way a sweet tooth aches—an ache that can never be satisfied. And yet I know, unequivocally, that you are not gone. You have simply transformed. I feel you. I receive your signs. I know when you are near because joy rises in me at the same time sorrow pulls at me—love and grief braided together. It hurts, but I’ll take that ache as a substitute for your presence. Some days, it’s enough. Today, it was. And I’m grateful.


I’ve had to learn how to live without you these last three years, just as I once had to learn how to live with you during the twenty-five years we were gifted together. You were an angel who touched down briefly, just long enough to change everything. You taught me more than I ever imagined learning in this lifetime. You opened me spiritually—helped me see beyond the five senses—simply by being you.


You were classified as “moderate to severe special needs.” You couldn’t read or write or dress yourself. Some people wrote you off because of that. If I hadn’t been your mother, if I hadn’t had you to guide me, I might have made the same mistake. But you opened my eyes to another way of knowing, another way of being. You showed me the wonder you carried in your presence, your energy, your determination, your grit. You never gave up. You always found a way to communicate what mattered to you—one way or another.


Being your mom was the greatest gift of my life. You taught me patience, understanding, and a thousand other invisible lessons too many to name. You stretched my heart and softened it. You made me who I am. And even now—especially now—you continue to.


The third anniversary came and went without fanfare. Your dad and I went out for Mexican—your favorite—and we ordered chips and salsa for you, just like we always used to. The day itself felt heavy, full of flashbacks, my body weighted with a familiar sorrow that settled into every corner. But the next morning, I woke up feeling you. The air felt lighter. I felt lighter. And in that quiet, I knew: even on the hardest days, you still find your way back 

I love you always and forever.

Mom 


Labels:

We’d Love to Hear From You

Share a reflection, a memory, or just say hello below.

Popular posts from this blog

Week 137: Trying On Myself Without Her: Rediscovering Identity After Losing My Daughter

  Rebuilding Identity After Loss Lately, I’ve been spending hours trying to figure out what colors look good on me. I hold up fabric swatches to my face in the mirror. Warm or cool? Autumn or Winter? Olive skin or just bad lighting? I click through endless YouTube videos about Kibbe body types, staring at women explaining bone structure and yin/yang balance like it’s some secret code to unlocking the real me. It’s become its own kind of ritual—comparing necklines, scrolling through capsule wardrobes, wondering which version of myself I’m supposed to be now. It might seem shallow—or at least frivolous. And maybe it is. But right now, it’s easier to be authentic on the outside than to face how lost I feel on the inside. Losing Her—and Myself Since losing my daughter, the person I was has gone missing. She took whole pieces of me with her. And so now, I’m hunting for identity in strange places—like in the shape of a sleeve, the drape of a fabric, the difference between camel and taupe...
Read more

Week 140: A Grief Toolkit: 12 Things That Help Me Breathe

Grief has a way of showing up like an uninvited guest — one who doesn’t call ahead, and doesn’t care if you’re ready. When those moments come, I reach for my grief toolkit — a collection of things that help me survive the next breath, the next hour, the next day. These aren’t cures for grief. Nothing “fixes” it. They’re simply what makes it bearable for me. I’m sharing mine in case it inspires you to create your own grief toolkit, filled with whatever brings you comfort. What’s in My Grief Toolkit 1. My Daughter’s Blanket It’s navy blue fleece covered in cheerful animals. She used it constantly — even when it was 90 degrees outside. Now I do the same. Sometimes it’s on my lap, sometimes draped behind my head on the couch, but always close. It reminds me of our closeness in life, how we were rarely more than an arm’s reach apart. 2. The “Mommy and Me” Candle A soft jasmine scent, a rose quartz crystal nestled in soy wax. I light it on her birthday, her “angelversary,” or on National Chi...
Read more

Week 136: Why Stillness Feels Scary (and What It Might Be Telling Us)

When rest finally arrives, why does it sometimes feel so uncomfortable? This personal reflection explores the fear of stillness, the quiet rise of grief, and what happens when we stop running from silence. A heartfelt take on loss, love, and learning to sit with grief. I Craved Peace—But Got Something Else This past weekend, I was craving quiet. After weeks of nonstop movement—some necessary, some self-imposed—I thought having nothing to do would feel like a gift. I imagined rest. Stillness. Time with my husband and our adult kids, home for summer. But as the weekend approached, I started to feel uneasy. Like walking into a quiet room and realizing the silence might not be safe. When Life Is Full, the Inner World Can Feel Chaotic Even when everything looks fine on the outside, my internal world can feel like a tennis match—grief and distraction smacking me back and forth. I wanted to rest. And on the surface, I did: music, a walk, a drink, time with family. It was lovely. But rest does...
Read more