Faith Love n Joy

Today marks eight years since my mother’s death.

Even writing that sentence feels unreal.

Her passing came unexpectedly. It shook something deep inside me. It shifted parts of my life I didn’t even realize stood on her presence. At the same time, it has grown me in ways I never anticipated. Grief has a way of doing both—breaking you open while quietly reshaping you.

Over the last eight years, my life has changed in so many ways. I’ve moved three times. I bought a house with my sister. I watched one of my daughters get married. I became a grandmother.

Life kept moving forward.

But even now, in the stillness that follows loss, I feel the weight of what’s missing in a way I didn’t expect.

And strangely, as my granddaughter Sophia grows, I miss my mom more—not less.

I See Her Everywhere

The more I watch my daughters and my granddaughter, the more I see my mother.

Not in big, obvious ways—but in small, deeply familiar moments that stop me in my tracks.

Shelby’s quick sarcasm and sharp sense of humor remind me of her constantly. That wit—fast, effortless, and perfectly timed—lives on in her.

Emilie carries something different. She moves through motherhood with a calm, steady presence that feels so familiar. My mom mothered us naturally. She didn’t force it. She didn’t overthink it. She simply was a mother in every sense of the word.

And now, Emilie carries that same instinct with Sophia.

It’s beautiful to witness.

And then there’s the snark.

Both Emilie and Sophia already show it in their own ways, and I can’t help but smile when I see it. That little spark, that edge—that’s her too.

Grief does something unexpected here. It doesn’t just remind me that she’s gone. It shows me that parts of her remain.

I Miss Her Sense of Humor

My mom had a way of making people laugh without trying too hard.

She didn’t need to be the center of attention. She didn’t force jokes. Her humor came naturally, often with a hint of sarcasm and perfect timing.

I miss that.

I miss the way she could lighten a heavy moment. I miss the shared looks, the inside jokes, the way laughter would just happen when she was around.

Now, I catch glimpses of that same humor in my girls, and it brings both comfort and ache.

Comfort, because I still get to experience it.

Ache, because I know exactly where it came from.

I Miss Her Wisdom

There’s a certain kind of loss that comes when you no longer have someone to call for advice.

My mom always knew what to say.

Not in a rehearsed or polished way—but in a grounded, instinctive way that came from experience and intuition.

She called it “a feeling.”

And that feeling? It was never wrong.

When I didn’t know what to do, I went to her. When I stood at a crossroads, I talked it out with her. She helped me sort through the noise and find clarity.

Now, I still find myself thinking “I’ll talk with Mom about this”.

And then I remember.

That space—that gap—that’s where I feel her absence the most.

I Miss Her Stories

My mom loved to tell stories about her childhood.

She was a true daddy’s girl.

I never had the chance to know my maternal grandfather, but through her stories, I felt like I did. She painted such a vivid picture of him—his personality, his presence, the way he loved her.

Honestly, I suspect if he had been alive when we were born, he would have spoiled us completely.

Through her, I got to know his spirit.

And now, I realize something important:

Those stories weren’t just memories. They were a bridge—connecting generations, passing down identity, preserving legacy.

I miss hearing them from her voice.

I Miss the Music

Music filled so many moments of my childhood.

Long car rides. Windows down. Radio on.

And my mom singing—always just a beat behind the song.

Every time.

It didn’t matter what was playing. She sang along anyway.

Recently, on a long drive to see my granddaughter, I heard Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” come through the speakers.

And just like that, I wasn’t driving anymore.

I was a passenger again. Sitting next to my mom on that old bench seat. No seatbelt. No worries. Just music and presence.

How did we survive those days? Honestly, I have no idea.

But what I do know is this: music carries memory in a way nothing else can.

And in that moment, she felt so close.

I Miss Her Comfort

When life hit hard, my mom didn’t rush to fix things.

She didn’t jump straight into solutions.

She let me cry.

She believed in release before resolution.

We would sit together, and I would cry—sometimes quietly, sometimes not so quietly. And she never tried to stop it.

She understood that some pain needs to come out before it can be talked through.

Later, we would sort through the problem. Later, we would find direction.

But first—we felt it.

I miss that.

I miss having a place where I didn’t need to hold it together.

The Things I Wish She Could See

There’s so much I wish she were here to experience.

Especially Sophia.

Oh, the relationship they would have had.

I can picture it so clearly—the songs they would sing together, the laughter they would share, the bond they would build.

Sophia already loves music. She loves to sing.

So now, I find myself holding onto every song I can remember.

I replay them in my mind. I hum them under my breath. I try to keep them alive so I can pass them down.

Because even though my mom isn’t here physically, her legacy doesn’t end.

It continues.

Through stories.
Through music.
Through personality.
Through love.

Holding Grief and Gratitude Together

I could keep going.

There’s so much more I miss.

But here’s what I’m learning:

Grief doesn’t erase what was—it reveals how deeply it mattered.

And alongside the grief, gratitude rises.

Gratitude for the kind of mother she was.
Gratitude for the way she shaped me.
Gratitude for the pieces of her I still see every single day.

Eight years in, I don’t have it all figured out.

I still feel the shock.
I still feel the ache.
I still reach for her without thinking.

But I also see her—everywhere.

And somehow, that makes this loss both heavier… and a little more bearable at the same time.