A Journal of a Lost Mother

This morning, I opened my journal and found myself reading words I wrote in the darkest moments of grief. Words I never intended to share. Words that feel almost too raw, too real to put out into the world.

But something keeps pulling at me to share them.

Maybe it's because when I was searching for comfort in those early days of loss, I couldn't find stories that reflected the messy, complicated reality of grief. Everything felt polished and processed. 

What I'm about to share is different. These are my unedited journal entries, written in real-time as I navigated the first months after losing my mom. They're messy. They're honest. They're full of contradiction and confusion and pain.

Some were written at 3 AM when sleep wouldn't come. Some were typed through tears between meetings. Some emerged during workout sessions when grief hit unexpectedly.

I'm sharing them now, not because they're perfect or because they offer solutions, but because maybe someone else is sitting in the dark, feeling alone in their grief, needing to know that someone else has felt this too.

Grief & Regret 

December 20, 2023. A date that has etched itself into my memory, not because it was extraordinary, but because it was so ordinary. My mother sent me a message that day, something so trivial that it barely registered at the time. She asked me, “I’m sorry, this might be a stupid question, but hot chocolate, that’s not the same as O’boy, is it? I’m watching a lot of Christmas movies and everyone’s having hot chocolate.”

I responded, “Same, same, different names,” and she replied with a simple, “Ok.”

It was the last time I truly recognized her—the last time her mind was still with me, still my mom.

Looking back now, that message haunts me. It was her reaching out, sharing something small, something that connected us in an everyday way. But I couldn’t be bothered. My response was short, dismissive, almost an afterthought.

And this is where the regret gnaws at me. So many of our conversations over the past few years were just like that—I was annoyed, distant, unwilling to engage. My mother, who needed love, care, and connection, received indifference instead. I see it now, and I’m tormented by the thought that I didn’t see it then.

Grief is a strange thing. It’s not just the loss of a person; it’s the loss of the moments you didn’t appreciate, the words you didn’t say, the calls you didn’t take. I’m haunted by the times I let her down, the times I couldn’t be bothered, and the times I treated her as if she was a burden instead of a blessing.

Now, I’m left with the silence. No more messages, no more questions about hot chocolate or Christmas movies. Just the echo of my own regret, asking why I couldn’t have just been there for her—truly there—when she needed me most.

Searching for Memories

As I sit in silence, attempting to meditate, my mind refuses to comply. The chatter in my head is relentless, the voices too loud to ignore.

Meditation has never been my strong suit—I can never truly turn off the noise. But today, as I try once again, my mind takes a different path. It’s searching, desperately seeking memories, images, experiences—anything that brings me closer to my mother.

I get frustrated because, in this vast sea of memories, I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. But that’s just it—I don’t even know what I’m searching for. Is it a moment, a feeling, a picture in my mind that brings me comfort? Or is it something more tangible, something I can hold onto, something that confirms her presence in my life?

Why don’t I have more pictures? Did I just stop taking them? The thought stays with me, and I find myself reaching for my phone, scrolling through endless photos, hoping to stumble upon the one that will bring me peace.

I go through my mother’s Facebook pictures one by one, desperate to find answers. But I don’t even know what questions I’m asking.

This endless search—it’s as if I’m trying to piece together something that was never complete, to begin with.

The memories are there, but they’re elusive, slipping through my fingers like sand. And I’m left wondering if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for, or if I’ll always be searching without resolution.

The Heat of Grief

Yesterday, in the middle of my workout, it hit me like a wave of fire—this sudden, overwhelming heat that took over my entire body. As I pushed the dumbbells over my head, I felt an urge so strong, it almost knocked the wind out of me.

I just wanted to cry, to scream, to let out everything I’ve been holding inside. It’s like I’m screaming internally, but no one can hear me. Why is she gone? Why did she just leave? Why did she give up on me, on herself, on everyone who loved her?

These thoughts dragged me back to that day—the day I jumped on a flight to go see her, with the doctor’s words echoing in my mind: “If I got this call about my mother, I would have jumped on a plane immediately.” I remember sitting on that plane, trying to push away the thoughts that this might be the end. I questioned myself, wondering if I should have packed a dress for a funeral. But no, I told myself, this isn’t how it’s going to end. I refused to believe it.

It was so cold that night. I remember holding my son as we waited for the bus to take us to the rental car. My hands were freezing, and I could feel that he was cold, too. The drive to the hospital felt endless, over an hour in the dark, in the cold.

When I finally arrived, the staff knew I was coming. I walked into the room, and that image will never fade—she was so tiny, so fragile. Her breathing was labored, her mouth open, and I could see her tongue. I remember thinking how uncomfortable she must be, how dry her mouth must feel.

I took her hand, holding it as my eyes welled up with tears. She moved her head and looked at me, and in that moment, tears rolled down her chin. I couldn’t find any words, nothing seemed adequate. The only thing I could offer was, “I’m here now.”

I almost dropped the dumbbells down on the floor in front of me. I sat down, hugging my knees, and put my face down in my sweaty sweater. And I just let it out. I cried, sobbed, and it seemed like there was no end, like I had endless tears.

My body started to shake as the sobs grew louder and louder. I so desperately wanted my husband to wake up, but it was early, just after six.

I needed a hug, someone to tell me it was okay.

I texted my friend in the UK, telling her I couldn’t sleep all night and now I was just crying. I told her how much I missed my mom, how I couldn’t believe she was really gone. She validated my feelings, reminding me, “You were there. You were there when she passed. You had to deal with all the practical stuff, and you're still dealing with your brothers and the house. You spent weeks there without her, and then you had to return to your life, with all the travel. You’ve been a little sick, too.

Grief is just catching up to you now. Just let it. Sink into it. It’s okay.

Christmas Eve 2023

It’s Christmas Eve, 2023. I’m in Bend, Oregon, and we’re all wearing matching Christmas pajamas. Luca, is in his second pair of the same pajamas—I keep buying him bigger sizes of the same brand, the same style. We look picture-perfect, but my mind is somewhere else.

I remember calling my mom that day. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt like I had to. It wasn’t an option. I dreaded it, like I did most calls with her these days. And just like so many times before, she started complaining. This time, it was about grandma. How she had invited grandma for Christmas, but grandma had decided to spend the holiday with my older brother instead.

I tried to get her to focus on the positive. I reminded her that one of my younger brothers was there, spending the day with her, with his girlfriend and her two kids.

I was in another country, my older brother had his own celebration, and our other younger brother had been missing from her life for a long time. But, of course, she went on about him too.

I remember feeling heavy-hearted during this conversation. It was Christmas. I was with Luca, trying to keep the holiday joyful for him, but this call weighed me down. Still, I did it. And afterward, I convinced myself it was okay—because I did it.

This was the last phone call I ever had with my mother. The last time we exchanged spoken words. Not a text message, but real, actual words. And, of course, I said, “I love you.” We always said it. And I did love her. I do. But I didn’t say it with the love that I should have. And now, I’ll never get to say it again.

The Weight of Holding Back

I still can’t stop thinking about how much I want to cry. It’s been months since my mom passed, and every time I talk about it with my therapist, I feel like I’m holding back. But I don’t know if crying will do anything. Will it actually help me get past the pain? It feels like we’re digging up so much from the past, and it breaks my heart to think that not everything was good between me and my mom—especially now that she’s gone.

During my last session, my therapist asked me to go back to my mom’s house in my mind. I can’t shake the memory of when I walked through it this past summer. It was empty. My brothers and I, mostly my brothers, cleared everything out so quickly. We didn’t stop to think, didn’t want to linger, and now I regret it. It’s hard to explain, but when I walked through the house, it was like the walls held all the memories—birthdays, laughter, dinners—but everything tangible that connected me to her was gone.

We threw so much away. I’ll never get to smell her leather jacket again, or see her favorite vase. I tossed out all of her textiles, and now all I want is to have them back. Why didn’t I hold onto those things? It’s as if I was trying to move on too quickly, and now I can’t let go.

I keep telling people that I moved to San Diego because of the weather, and that’s partly true, but I think there’s more to it. I know there is.

Even as a little girl, I always felt this pressure from my mom. It wasn’t something she asked for or wanted me to feel, but it was there. She loved me so deeply, but there was this unspoken expectation—this need for me to be someone I wasn’t sure I could be. I couldn’t ever say no to her.

Every Friday, I knew what she wanted: the house cleaned, the laundry done, dinner on the table. I helped a lot because I knew it made her happy. And if it wasn’t done, she’d be in a bad mood. My brothers rarely did it, but I couldn’t bear to let her down.

There was this one time, when my older brother had a friend over—someone I had a bit of a crush on—and I was vacuuming the living room while they were hanging out. I remember feeling so embarrassed, but I knew I had to keep going because that’s what would make my mom happy.

Now, looking back, I realize how much of that pressure I’ve carried with me into my own life. I can’t relax if the house isn’t clean. I’m just like my mom in that way, and I get frustrated when I don’t get any help.

It’s a lot to sit with, especially when I think about celebrating Luca’s birthday without my mom. It hurts knowing I can’t send her a picture, even though I didn’t take any pictures, but still… it stings.

I’m staring at her picture now. She was beautiful, and she loved me so much. But I ran away, as far as I could because I couldn’t meet all of her needs.

Maybe with my therapist, I’m holding back because I don’t want to cry. But if crying is what I need to do, if it’s what will help me find myself and learn to love myself, then I have a lot of crying ahead of me.

Searching for Something

I remember walking into my mom’s house this past summer, after she had passed. The house was empty—my brothers had cleared everything out. They’d even renovated the inside, and everything that made the house feel like home was gone. Luca was asleep in the car, and the weather was warm, comforting. So I left him there, just for a moment, as I stepped inside.

It felt strange walking through the house like that. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. Maybe I was searching for something—an answer, a sign, or some connection to everything that had been lost. But I found nothing. It was just a shell of what it used to be. The memories, though... they were everywhere. Christmas mornings, birthdays, laughter by the pool, dinners, drinks, parties, weddings... they all flooded back in an instant.

But the house was hollow. The life, the warmth, was gone. It was all still there in my mind, but at the same time, it wasn’t. It’s hard to explain. It’s like the house held the memories, but without her there, it couldn’t hold me.

A few days ago, I had a call with my therapist. She asked me to close my eyes and picture myself as a little girl in that house. The same house I had walked through this summer. She wanted me to see something, feel something. But I couldn’t. I was stuck in that same moment from a few months ago, unable to move past it. The tears started welling up then, just like they are now.

I fought them off, though. I fight them all the time. I don’t know why I do that. Am I coping with this wrong? Should I just let myself cry? Is that how you get through this? I’m constantly asking myself these questions, but I don’t know the answers.