When grief is met...

My mom would have turned 81 this April 15^th. She died 2 weeks after I turned 32, the same age she was when she had me. For a long time after, I didn’t really know how to allow myself to grief for her. I remember my younger sister sharing her memories of being with her, how she was often reminded of her presence, even in her dreams, and the things she’d enjoy doing in remembrance of her. And I’ve always felt a tinge of guilt for not feeling the same. “Do I not miss her just as much?”, “Did we not have a relationship that is just as close?” were thoughts that filled me. And after a while, I stopped thinking about her.

For a very long time I struggled to recall memories of being with her, without them being tied to regrets of how I wished I had done things differently. And times when I’ve been hyper-focused in finding answers from understanding my past traumas that I would only remember what I didn’t get at home from my parents growing up, and the desire to do everything differently as a mother now. There were moments when my daughter would ask about her grandma and I would answer very briefly and move on to other topics.

After my mom died, I slept on the couch in my living room for a whole year. It was where I had spent most of my nights while caring for her in her last few months. I remember on her last night, my younger sister came to spend the night with us. We were taking turns to stay with her and I was back in my room to rest for a while. In my half-dream state, I felt my mom’s hand gently waking me up, as if to tell me, “It’s time”. As my sister and I sat by her bedside, we watched my mom drew her last breath, peacefully, as if she was drifting into a deep sleep. That was the last night I slept on my bed.

I’ve not thought about that moment for a long time. For many years it had been a memory tied to pain, pain that I didn’t want to feel. Until 2 years ago. Today as I am writing about it, I am experiencing it differently. I am feeling thankful that she was in the comfort of her own home and not in a sterile hospital, hooked up to a whole bunch of monitors, which she was adamant against. I am glad that my younger sister was there with us, because I knew that was as important as it was for her as it was for me. I knew it wasn’t easy for her to do that, with a young 2+ year old at home missing her at bedtime. I am thankful that we didn’t miss the chance to say our last goodbyes. And I am most thankful that she could leave her body, with us holding her closely, reminding her how much she was and will always be loved.

When I first allowed myself to grief for her during an emotionally healing session at a retreat 2 years ago, the image that came up was of my mom letting go of my hand and gesturing for me to continue walking without her. It was as if she was giving me permission to move on, as she continues to watch from afar. Last year, while sitting at my therapist’s office, the image of my mom came up again, but this time it was with both of us embracing together with my daughter. That brought me a feeling of comfort that I yearned for all these years to continue mothering my daughter, without my own mother with me.

In the past few months, I’ve been noticing how my mom has been showing up in our lives. In how I’m slowly being drawn to come back to my roots – the Eastern way of living life (instead of the Western ways that I used to think so highly of), cooking comfort food and home remedies that she once made for me now for my daughter. In the ways my daughter picked up sewing and making things with her hands, something my mom used to love doing when we were younger. In how my daughter asked me to teach her Mandarin words, something I learned from my mom when we were younger, during school breaks and attending Chinese church service. Just a few weeks ago, my daughter asked me to teach her a Mandarin song while we were lying in bed. The first song that came to my mind was by one of my mom’s favorite singers. I was surprised that I could still remember most of the lyrics. And to hear my daughter learn and sing it to me a few nights later warmed my heart. It felt like my mom was there with us. And yesterday I saw that my daughter had found this photo of us and used it as the wallpaper on her computer. It touched something deep in me that I haven’t felt in a long time, the deep connection with my mother.

My mother had given her whole life caring for others. First caring for her 3 siblings after her own mom died when she was only 18. And then caring for her 3 daughters mostly on her own. I have long felt it in my heart that her dying and freeing me from my responsibilities to take care of her was her making the ultimate sacrifice as a mother. To let me go and live my life, in my own terms, what she couldn’t do for herself. Because she knew I wasn’t truly living.

I will be forever grateful for that. One day, when we meet again, I will get to tell her that. But I know she’s smiling down at me now, knowing that I am continuing to walk on the path that I am meant to be, courageously, because of her. I know she’ll be proud. And that is enough.

That’s the thing I’ve learned about grief. It isn’t just about the pain from suffering a loss. When met with tenderness, grief is also a reflection of love, the love for not just what was lost and the void that it leaves behind, but the love that remains as the thread that keeps us connected. And it can help us find our way home to our heart.

But sharing of the grief is part of the process. Because no one can move through grief alone. It is hard, it is messy, and it is painful. And I hope you will find the courage to share it, nonetheless. May you find those who can hold and meet you with tenderness in your grief, as I did.