(Written April 11, 2026)
I was recently asked about my grieving process as it relates to the current time period I find myself in: specifically, the time between Maria’s birth and death anniversaries. We are quickly approaching the fifth anniversary of her death. I realized as I reflected on how my grief has shifted (due to both time and effort), that Maria’s birthdays are days I dedicate to thinking about her, but her death days are the days I dedicate to thinking about myself.
Here’s what I mean by that… I think about myself as her mother, both then and now. I think about whether or not I was, or am, a good mother to her. I think about how I’m living my life, and if I am honoring her as well as I should be in the way I’m living it. I think about whether my life is aligned with my values, even though I’m honestly still trying to figure out what those look like now. I know I value peace, and authenticity. I value kindness and compassion and empathy. I value commitment. I value responsibility and personal accountability.
I live in a world that has essentially forgotten her. Most of my friends have grown tired of hearing about her, and about how her loss is still impacting me. My family is empathetic and understanding, but they just don’t live in the same grief space that I do. I’m her mother. I will always be her mother. Her absence will never be natural or ok to me.
I often feel like I’m not doing enough. Not enough to honor her, not enough to take care of myself, not enough to take care of those around me. Not enough at work, not enough at home. My capacity for what I can handle has gotten smaller since some of that space became (permanently?) occupied by grief. But at the same time, I am astounded at what I can handle. I can remember things again. I can focus again, most days, for hours at a time. I can compartmentalize and multi-task in a way that I couldn’t right after Maria died. I can be truly empathetic to others about their challenges with their own healthy, living children. I can be truly empathetic to others about their non-loss-oriented challenges.
(Written June 21, 2026)
I realized today, as I tried to celebrate Father’s Day with my family, that I haven’t been truly happy since before Maria’s diagnosis. And that maybe I will never be again.
What does it mean to be “truly happy?” To me, in this context, I think it means feeling content. Feeling like there is a greater order to it all, and that things will generally work out ok. Being able to be completely present with joy in a given moment. Sometimes I get glimpses of this, but other times it feels completely unattainable. I just don’t know if these things are achievable in a real and lasting way anymore, and I think that’s ok. I am a living contradiction now; I think I will always have to be able to hold space for both joy and sorrow.
This blog post started out as reflections on Maria’s death anniversary; the anniversary came and went with surprisingly little emotional fanfare this year. I used my busy job as a distraction in the days leading up to it, and I was able to take some moments to myself on the actual anniversary date itself (which fell on a weekend this year).
If nothing else, here is where I currently sit: I am still changed. I am still figuring things out. I am still, in many ways, spiritually numb (a topic to explore in greater detail another time). I am more isolated than I used to be, mostly because I am more selective in how I choose to expend my energy. I have greater capacity for joy, despite (because of?) my experiences with profound sorrow and loss. I make the time to sit with grief as often as I need to. I stand up for myself more, when I used to remain silent. I am Maria’s mother, and I always will be. And I will always try to make her proud in everything I do with the life I have left.
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