a year's worth of stuff

permission to feel grief however it shows up

for weeks, i’ve been wondering if—or when— i would start feeling sad. sad about the first holidays without my mom. sad about the approach of the one-year anniversary of her death (today). every morning, i journal, checking in with myself: am i avoiding something? am i in denial? but no, the same feeling kept coming up—relief.

it feels like a scary truth to say out loud, but life has gotten easier since she died. to clarify, it got harder before it got easier. there’s been a year’s worth of stuff, a year’s worth of work, a year’s worth of feelings, a year’s worth of healing. like some sort of purgatory — my mom died, but life didn’t stop being about her. sitting in the aftermath can be so much harder than the crisis. it’s over and it’s far from over.

and yet, the other day, i put on music. a song came on, and i burst into tears. it was a song that reminded me so deeply of her—a song we put on a playlist the week she was dying. (because, of course, nothing is more her than curating a playlist for her own death.) i was instantly transported back to that room last year, during the strangest holiday season of my life.

christmas last year meant sitting alone at the dining room table, watching gilmore girls on my phone while she faded in the next room. the world outside kept turning—people bought gifts, went to parties, celebrated. meanwhile, my family spent 11 long days leading up to december 29 sitting vigil, wondering if today was the day she’d go. the playlist played in the background, like some surreal soundtrack.

this is the strange dance of grief i don’t hear people talk about much. the truth is, i feel so much lighter this holiday season than i did last year. last year (well, the last few years) was the hard one. this year, i get to cook thanksgiving dinner with my brother and relax. i got to go to yoga on christmas eve morning with a friend, giggle that evening with more friends, and spend christmas day watching movies and eating chinese food with the same person who came and sat with me alone at the dining room table the year before. instead of sitting alone watching it on my phone, i had the silliest day dancing around a recreated stars hollow on the wb lot. compared to last year, this year feels lovely and light.

but i can’t listen to music with her anymore. listening to that song, i was flooded with memories of singing with her in the studio, sharing songs. and now, no more. grief is funny like that. i don’t feel the longing to have her here now. but i do feel the longing to be with her then. just relive one memory. just one song. just one day.

still, i feel the weight of everything this past year has held. there was the endless paperwork and phone calls (or as i like to call it, “death admin”), the memorial in the rainstorm, cleaning out the house, selling the house. my brother and i were left holding most of the bag, surrounded by well-meaning people who couldn’t quite help. i surrendered to the season, just as i did when she was dying, just as i did when david died.

but the season is changing now. the house is sold. the admin is (almost) done. my focus is shifting toward what’s next—toward a life that finally feels like it gets to be mine. saying that out loud feels a little insane, but it’s true. on the anniversary of my mom’s death, i mostly feel relieved that the “mom is dying/mom died” chapter is closing. there’s a lightness. there’s ease. and that’s okay.

then, the song comes on, and i’m crying, because amid all that relief is the reality that she‘s gone. she feels further and further away. i yearn to remember her spirit before she got sick. i miss her.

grief is strange. lightness and longing coexist. and maybe that’s the point. to let the memories sit beside the relief, to feel them both without needing one to cancel the other. to wish for one more day while being excited for all the new ones that get to come. to carry what remains, not as a burden, but as something that shapes what comes next.