Why I’m Pretty Sure I Was a Better Person When My Mom Was Alive ❤️

I’ve been trying so hard.

The earth is spinning around, and each day seems to bleed into the next.

I live near the ocean, in a little cottage where birds sing and the sun shines so beautifully most days.

I usually sit in front of my computer working most of the day, my heart beating… hoping for something beautiful to come of it all.

I would like to be in the ocean more. Feel the sand between my toes. Even experience the burning sensation in my nose when a wave comes tumbling down and catches me a bit off guard — reminding me that I’m alive, and each breath is precious.

I think of my mom a lot. Her last days on earth. When I saw her leave her body.

She was too young, and I felt so old.

I think of her smile. The funny jokes we shared. Her thin wrists and beautiful manicured hands that would perform numerous tasks throughout a day… and me wishing I would have asked her for more mom daughter cuddles.

She was such a protector in a soft, kind way. She’d listen to me and encourage my next steps. She’d remind me that I was put on this earth for a purpose.

But lately, I think I’ve forgotten a bit.

How do I make it all work without her?

As I ask this question, my first thought is that I’m too old to feel this way. I’m a big girl and people we love die.

But, I understand more than ever how my mom felt when she was recovering from her massive surgery after her cancer diagnosis and she turned to me and emotionally said, “Jen, I wish my mom were here to help me through this. I miss her so much.”

I get it now.

When she said that, I could only run my hands through her hair and let her know I was there for her — in the most terrified way a kid could be.

I wasn’t her mom. Just her youngest child hoping she’d make it through her treatment and grow old like I always thought she would.

I think I’ve been chasing some wrong things since she’s been gone.

I’ve been avoiding my own self reckoning. My brokenness.

I miss her and who I was when she was alive.

Sounds a bit tragic, I know. But it’s the truth, and maybe my healing depends on me admitting I feel numb and lost.

Maybe finding freedom means pausing and taking time to remember who she was and why her not being here has left me reeling.

Or is it about letting go and not looking back as much?

I wish I knew the right answer.

When I was a child, I used to think my mom was so similar to Princess Diana. She was tall and slender. Her eyes were bright blue. Her hair blond and shaped similarly.

You could see her heart in her eyes.

Always.

Her mind was brilliant. Full of facts and figures. History. Literature.

She was a beautiful skier — both snow and water.

She drove fast, yet safely. I always felt safe in her car.

She loved Dodger baseball, classical music, art, the mountains, traveling, adventuring.

Her greatest happiness was showing me new things. Like taking me to Westminster Abby and pointing out every detail, and visiting little towns in France.

As I grew, I became independent, and our moments became less frequent. I was less patient because I had friends to hang out with and a career to sculpt.

But now, I close my eyes and find myself trying to go back to specific moments in time. To relive our time together.

Oh life, how fragile you are…

In closing, I realize I want to… need to… reconnect with who I was when she was alive. I think in many ways it was my better self.

I believed more. Feared less.

Was it because I had a mom who believed in me? One who I could call any moment for support?

I had always thought I was so independent, but maybe I was more of a mama’s girl than I thought?

So many thoughts to ponder as I drift off to sleep.

I want to wake up more authentic. More me again.

I think my mom would want that for me. She prepared me for this moment in time.

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