Mother’s Day is layered for me now—filled with love, gratitude, and an undeniable absence. This is my third Mother’s Day without my mom, and while the pain has shifted shape, it hasn’t lessened. I wanted to honor her the best way I know how: with words. This post is a reflection of the love we shared, the memories I hold close, and the quiet ways she still shows up for me, even now.
Even writing that doesn’t quite feel real.
Now and then, I still catch myself reaching for the phone to call her, especially when something funny happens with my daughter or when something big happens, like my recent promotion. She would’ve been so proud. I can hear her asking, “Okay, so what’s the most recent thing you treated yourself to?” That was her way of reminding me that I deserve good things, even during busy seasons.
She asked about me—really asked. Wanted to know what was new with me. Those daily conversations, even the quick ones, were a rhythm in my life that I didn’t realize held me up until they were gone. Her voice was home.
Growing up, our relationship wasn’t always smooth sailing. She wasn’t “one of my little friends”, and the look she gave me let me know that. She was my mother first – firm, protective, and full of expectation. But as. I got older, it got easier. The edges softened. We understood each other more. Somewhere along the way, she became not only my mom but also my friend. That part of our journey – the shift into mutual respect, laughter, and deep connection – is something I’ll always cherish.
I remember the first time she visited us at our home. It was as if she were seeing my life in full bloom. She walked in with a quiet smile, looked around slowly, and said, “This is nice.” Not just because of how it looked, but because of what it meant: her daughter was building a life, and she could see her imprint.
We made sure she had all her favorite things: from body care to her favorite cereal and snack, it was here waiting for her. She never met a dessert she didn’t love. She was completely at ease, especially in the backyard where the roses are.
My husband and daughter planted different flowers, including roses, for me as a Mother’s Day gift a few years before. But when my mom visited, they became hers in a way too. Pruning the rose bushes was one of her favorite things to do. She’d gently clip and tend to them like she did everything—with care, attention, and love. She had a green thumb, that’s for sure, unlike me. LOL.
She was deeply rooted in her faith. A regular churchgoer. A woman of prayer. One thing she always said, and never wavered from, was “Tomorrow, please God.” Not just “tomorrow,” but “please God.” That small phrase held so much reverence and hope. It’s etched in my heart now. She prayed constantly – not just in crisis or tradition, but as a way of being. Her faith carried her.
When she passed, it had only been nine months since we lost my dad. That grief nearly swallowed me whole. But because I had already begun healing through therapy and support, I was able to navigate my mom’s death differently. It wasn’t easier—it never could be—but I wasn’t in the same kind of darkness. Still, the void she left behind is one I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
Grief isn’t linear. That’s something I’ve learned. You can feel strong one moment and completely undone the next. People say time heals, but what time really does is teach you how to live with the ache. And if you’re lucky, it teaches you how to notice the quiet ways your loved ones still speak to you.
I still feel her with me, though. Butterflies. Dragonflies. Bluebirds. They show up like tiny love notes from her, reminding me I’m not alone. I remember one day in particular when it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t seen a butterfly in a few days—and not even five minutes later, a yellow one was fluttering through my yard. Just like that. As if she heard me and wanted to say, I’m still here. These small signs don’t feel small at all. They’re everything. They remind me that love doesn’t end, even when life does.
I’m so grateful I had the opportunity to thank her for everything before she passed. That’s a gift I don’t take for granted. But if I could say one thing to her this Mother’s Day, it’s this:
You are loved and missed every single day. And I will continue to make you proud until we meet again.
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