♡ I don’t know how to make it through the day without her ♡
There are many moments when I wish to hear my Mama’s voice. Some days even, I find myself screaming her name—both awake and asleep. There’s a kind of love, bond, and comfort between a mother and daughter, a mother and a son. The type of love and wisdom that can only come from a mother’s heart and hand.
Last Monday, as I struggled to sleep due to nightmares, I woke up in the middle of the night—around 2 a.m. I kneeled in front of my bed with tears in my eyes and screamed out loud, “MAMA, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET THROUGH THIS DAY WITHOUT YOU?”
It’s that moment when my mind is running at 80 miles per hour. When I try every technique I’ve mastered—even the ones that worked for years—and suddenly, they don’t work anymore.
A few days later, while leading a grief support group and listening to the different voices of people sharing their losses, I was reminded that just as grief comes in waves, my coping safety toolbox comes in waves too.
As I started learning more about loss and understanding my own, I heard many people say, “grief comes in waves,” but I never fully understood the full meaning of it. I think we often repeat words without explanation, focusing on comforting the moment.
Most people think the hardest day is the day they die… but it’s not.
When my father died, I was told time heals all wounds. Others said, “time will tell,” or “you will overcome—it gets easier.” What that did to me, when I didn’t get better, was make me blame myself.
In my journey through loss, I have learned that Grief Comes in Waves: The Truth About Missing Your Mother Years Later is a reality many face.
I realized the day they died was the beginning of an unending pain. Always the same, but with different stings and shapes.
Just last week was my mother’s 22nd anniversary—April 20th since she died. Every year, that day is the hardest. Every year without the ones who shaped me is the hardest.
What lies was I told about this statement?
Like this past week, I feel like I am living in horror—not sleeping well, appetite gone, like a walking zombie. Sometimes I hit myself for it, but then I remember… this is part of this thing called grief.
Some days it hurts more. Others, less.
And I’m starting to understand that maybe that’s what it really means when I say grief comes in waves.
It’s not just that it rises and falls.
It’s that it returns—unexpected, uninvited, and often misunderstood.
There are days when the waves feel quiet.
So quiet that I almost question it.
So quiet that I catch myself laughing or breathing a little easier, and then right after… I feel guilty.
I feel like I’m leaving her behind for a moment.
Like I shouldn’t be okay, even for a second.
No one really told me that part.
No one told me that feeling okay could feel just as confusing as feeling broken.
And then there are days where I feel it before I even open my eyes.
Days where my body already feels heavy.
Where I don’t want to get out of bed.
Where everything feels like too much before the day even begins.
I feel it in my chest.
I feel it in my thoughts that won’t slow down.
I feel it in the way my body doesn’t rest, even when I’m exhausted.
I feel it when I can’t eat.
I feel it when I can’t sleep.
I feel it when I wake up from nightmares and it takes me a moment to realize where I am.
And in those moments, I feel like nothing works.
All the things I’ve learned.
All the tools I’ve practiced.
All the ways I’ve helped others.
Sometimes I feel like I can’t access any of it.
And I’ve had to sit with that truth—
that it doesn’t mean I’m doing something wrong.
It means the wave is strong.
I’m learning that my grief changes shape.
Some days I feel it sharp and sudden, like something cutting through me out of nowhere.
Other days I feel it slow and stretched out, like it’s sitting with me all day, not leaving, just existing in everything I do.
Sometimes I feel it connected to a memory.
Other times I feel it and I don’t even know why.
There’s no clear reason. I am learning.
No clear trigger. Just a feeling that something is missing.
I feel that absence in quiet moments.
I feel it in conversations where I wish I could call her after.
I feel it in the parts of my life she should be here for.
And sometimes I feel like the hardest part isn’t even the grief itself.
It’s everything around it.
I feel the world moving forward.
I feel people expecting me to function, to show up, to respond like everything is normal.
And I feel how not normal it is inside of me.
I feel how hard it is to explain something that keeps changing.
So sometimes I don’t.
Sometimes I say I’m okay.
Sometimes I stay quiet.
But inside, I feel the waves.
And I’m starting to tell myself something different now.
I don’t feel like grief is something I need to fix.
I don’t feel like it’s something that follows a timeline.
I don’t feel like I’m supposed to be “over it” because time has passed.
I feel like this is something I’m learning to live with.
Something I’m learning to move with.
Even on the days I don’t want to.
Because underneath all of this… I feel the love.
I feel how much she mattered to me.
I feel how much of me is still connected to her.
I feel it in the way I call out for her.
I feel it in the way I miss her in moments that no one else sees.
And I think that’s why the waves don’t stop.
Because the love doesn’t stop.
It just has nowhere to go the way it used to.
So it comes back to me like this.
In waves.
So when the wave comes—
when I can’t sleep,
when my mind won’t slow down,
when my body feels like it’s carrying too much—
I’m trying not to fight it the way I used to.
I’m trying not to turn against myself for feeling this way.
I’m trying to sit with it, even when it’s uncomfortable.
I’m trying to remind myself that I don’t have to prove that I’m doing better.
Some days, I just have to get through.
Some days, I just have to breathe through it.
Some days, I just have to survive it.
And I’m learning that maybe that’s enough.
I don’t feel like I have all the answers.
I don’t feel like this gets easier in the way people say it does.
But I do feel like I’m still here.
Even in the middle of it.
Even when it feels like too much.
I’m still here.
And today… that has to be enough.
And with Mother’s Day approaching this weekend, I would be lying if I said this season doesn’t bring its own wave.
While many are celebrating, making brunch reservations, buying flowers, and posting photos with their mothers, some of us are trying to figure out how to survive the day. Some of us are trying not to break down in the grocery store flower section. Some of us are avoiding social media because every post feels like a reminder of what we no longer have.
And for some, grief is more complicated.
Maybe your mother is alive, but the relationship is broken.
Maybe you grieve the mother you never had.
Maybe this day feels heavy for reasons you can’t fully explain.
I feel all of that.
Days like Mother’s Day remind me that grief can become louder during moments the world expects celebration.
And if this weekend feels heavy for you, I hope you allow yourself to be honest about that. You do not have to force celebration on a day that feels like survival.
See, the first time I lost someone I loved more than anything was 22 years ago, at age 11. I can sit here and lie to myself and to you that I’ve got this whole thing figured out. One of my favorite sentences is, I am a human first. Maybe as you read this, you saw yourself in my story. Maybe you are living it right now. For me, the thing that has saved me as I write these stories is being human and understanding the definition behind it.
And maybe that’s the only truth I can leave you with—
that I am still learning, still feeling, still grieving in ways that don’t always make sense, and allowing myself to be human through all of it. Not perfect, not healed in a straight line, not “over it,” but present. Present with the love, the loss, the memories, and the waves as they come. And if you are here too, in your own way, feeling any part of this… then maybe being human is enough for you too.
