Every June we plant flowers for Lily.
When she was alive, planting day was less of a cherished family tradition and more of a negotiation.
She hated it.
Bruce finally built a flower wall just her size so she could reach every planter, hoping it would make the whole experience more appealing. It didn’t. She still complained. We still laughed. Somehow the flowers got planted anyway.
Now we plant them because she’s gone.
Every June I find myself standing in front of that same flower wall, pressing new life into the soil while remembering the little girl who wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
Grief rarely announces itself.
It waits in ordinary places.
Sometimes it waits in a song.
Sometimes in the grocery store.
Sometimes it’s tucked between a petunia and a marigold.
This year it found me there.
Not all at once. Just enough to make everything feel a little heavier.
I slept later than usual. I felt restless without knowing exactly why. I found myself spending far too much time looking at clothes and jewelry online, convinced that maybe the right outfit, the right jeans, or the perfect necklace stack would somehow make me feel more… like me.
But I wasn’t really looking for clothes.
I was looking for myself.
For weeks I’d been wondering why writing felt harder. Why I questioned my purpose. Why I couldn’t seem to find the part of me that wanted to begin.
Underneath every question was one answer I hadn’t expected.
I miss Lily.
I miss my dad.
And quietly—almost guiltily—
I miss me.
Who is this woman?
At fifty-four, shouldn’t I know her by now?
A few days later I canceled a visit with my mom.
Not because we had argued. Not because anything was wrong.
I simply didn’t have the energy.
If she had truly needed me, I would have gone without a second thought. But she didn’t need me that day, and I realized I couldn’t carry another conversation. I couldn’t be the one keeping it going.
For once, I listened to what I needed instead.
That surprised me.
Not because I felt guilty.
But because I didn’t.
Around that same time I came across a question that stopped me:
What parts of me were always there beneath the role of mother, waiting for their turn to emerge?
I didn’t need to know anything else.
That question was enough.
For so many years my identity was easy to describe.
I was raising twins.
I was Lily’s mom.
My days revolved around who needed me and what needed to be done.
Then life quietly rearranged itself.
One child died.
Two children grew up.
The role didn’t disappear.
It changed.
I spent decades learning how to mother my children.
Perhaps this season is teaching me how to mother my own life.
As I write this, I’m sitting in a hotel room with my son.
We’re each stretched out on our own bed, scrolling our phones, talking every so often, deciding where to get sushi.
Nothing remarkable is happening.
And somehow it feels remarkably full.
Tomorrow I’ll fly to Denver to help his twin sister pack up her apartment before we drive home together.
Another ending.
Another beginning.
Motherhood hasn’t left me.
It’s simply asking something different of me now.
So maybe this season isn’t about chasing purpose or becoming someone new.
Maybe it’s about getting reacquainted with the woman who has been there beneath every role I’ve ever held.
The woman beneath motherhood.
The woman beneath the grief.
The woman I’ve missed.
The flowers will bloom for a few months before fading, just as they always do.
Next June we’ll plant them again.
And maybe, little by little, I’ll keep tending the life that’s still growing here too.