The Light I Carry: For My Mom

She was funny and sassy, loving and kind. She was a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a daughter, and a friend. She had challenges in her life—plenty of them—but somehow, she kept going.

And no, she wasn’t perfect.

She was perfectly imperfect, and I loved every part of her.

Anytime I needed her, she was there. She was always just a phone call away. Sometimes she could hear it in my voice before I even had the chance to tell her something was wrong.

She wouldn’t ask a million questions.

She would simply say, “I’ll be right there.”

There was a calmness that came with my mom that I don’t know how to explain. Just knowing she was there made things feel a little less scary, a little less overwhelming, and a little more manageable.

I miss that.

I miss her voice. I miss her love. I miss knowing I could call her. I miss the feeling of having my mom here.

Truthfully, I miss everything about her.

My mom died very unexpectedly, and when she died, I was angry.

It didn’t feel fair. It didn’t feel right. And as my best friend would say, it was total bullshit.

The loss was so enormous that it was hard to focus on anything else. It felt like a part of me died with her that day.

Grief is strange that way. Life keeps moving even when you don’t feel ready to move with it. People go back to their routines. Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into years. But there are pieces of you that still remember exactly what it felt like when everything changed.

I still dream about my mom a lot.

And as much as I wish I could have had more time with her, I also know what she would want for me.

She would want me to keep going.

She would want me to be strong—not because I never struggle, but because I continue forward even when I do.

She would want me to be the best mom I can be. The best sister. The best friend. She would want me to laugh, love people, make memories, and live my life.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss and a lot of struggles in my life. There have been times when moving forward hasn’t been easy. But somewhere along the way, I learned that moving forward doesn’t mean leaving the people we love behind.

We carry them with us.

I carry my mom in the way I love my family. In the way I try to show up for the people who need me. In my strength, my humor, my imperfections, and even in the moments when I have to remind myself to keep going.

And maybe that’s part of what finding your light means.

It isn’t pretending that painful things didn’t happen.

It isn’t forcing yourself to be positive every day.

Sometimes it’s simply finding enough light to take the next step.

One of the greatest things anyone can ever say to me is, “Your mom would be so proud of you.”

Those words mean more to me than I can explain.

Because at the end of the day, that’s what I hope.

I hope she sees me.

I hope she knows I’m still trying.

I hope she knows how deeply she is loved and how much of her is still here.

And I hope I’m making her proud.

Her light didn’t disappear when she left.I carry a little of it with me every day. 🤍