I have belonged to a “club” now for more than 25 years. It’s a club where membership is based on loss. It is a club where the sisterhood or brotherhood in it means you share grief and anger on a repetitive, never-ending cycle.

When I was 10 years old, wrapping up my 4th grade year in school, my mother passed away after spending years in and out of hospitals fighting the failure of several organs and battling many old demons, too.

Losing my mother at an age not much older than my kids are now was easily the one moment in my life that affected me most (and continues to to this day).

I knew my mother was sick, very sick, and I knew it wasn’t “normal” for someone’s parent to be in the hospital that often. But I never actually thought she would die. 

I lived for the “in-between” hospital visit moments — playing outside, helping her around the house, smelling her suntan lotion, hearing her laugh, celebrating holidays in the biggest ways. When the in-between moments stopped, it felt like there could be no more reasons to laugh or find joy.

And now it’s a huge part of my everyday life — spreading joy, seeing joy, making joy, capturing joy.

I easily could have turned down a different path — I could have failed classes, given up on big dreams, sulked in drugs or bad decisions. (I have definitely made some bad choices along the way, and a lot of them likely were at least partially linked to a lack of a mom in those formative years). Overall, however, and probably with a lot of help from my very supportive dad, I chose to do well, to work hard, to try my best, to be happy.

Over the years, I’ve seen a lot of people join this “club” — some of them when they were young, like me. Some of them suffered great losses only in recent adult years. Some lost mothers to diseases; others in surprising and shocking way. We all have one thing in common — losing our mothers and a little piece of our hearts.

It’s a fine line between obsessing over the memories and souvenirs of my mother’s life and allowing myself to do and feel other things. It’s so strange and so hard sometimes to be a mother without having had a mother for a lot of my life. I don’t know if I’ll ever be “OK” with not being able to call her for advice or ask her what she did in this situation.

I honor her in tiny ways — planting yellow and purple flowers every year (her favorite colors); making holidays in our home a big deal for my kiddos like she used to do for me; clinging close to stories and memories shared with me. On her birthday in February, we bake some cupcakes or a cake. And on the anniversary of her passing — May 26th — I allow myself to remember.

I remember that it was a warm, sunny day and that I saw my first rainbow. I remember it was the first time I saw my Dad cry. I remember being very, very aware that it would all never quite be the same.

And I also remember the tiniest smidge of peace and calm — I somehow knew that I could — and would — be better and stronger for having survived this and for carrying her with me every single day in my heart. I choose to remember. It’s all we can do, really.

Honor, embrace, remember.