Bloom & Be

Category: Grief

  • Grief Hits Like a Ton of Bricks

    Grief is fucking weird. It sneaks up on you. Some days, you’re okay, dare I say… even good. And then out of nowhere, it knocks you flat like a ton of bricks.

    May and June were brutal this year. May is mother’s day. June is the anniversiary of my mom’s death. I cried all the damn time. Those months came and went. I started feeling better. It’s September and I’m still feeling good. I started thinking maybe, just maybe, I was learning how to live with this hole in my chest.

    Ha. Jokes on me.

    Last night was a slap in the fucking face. I was home with just my son. He was asleep, my partner and daughter were at sports practice. It had been a long ass day. I needed to vent. My mom was my person to call and I reached for my phone. I went to call my mom.

    For a split second, it was like she wasn’t dead. Like she was still just one call away. I almost dialed her number. The first time my brain forgot, even just for a moment, that she’s gone. And it broke me a little.

    And then the next second? It was like she died all over again. Instant fucking tears.

    I pulled myself together, tried to make a video about grief, and of course started crying again. Then my son woke up fussy, so there I was… holding him, rocking him, and cursing my mom out between tears. So fucking mad at her.

    Does that anger fade? I don’t know. I’m not there yet.

    What I do know is that grief doesn’t run on a schedule. Time is just that, it changes nothing. It doesn’t care if you’ve had a “good” stretch. It will still sneak in, rip the rug out from under you, and remind you of everything you’ve lost.

    But that’s the price you pay when you love someone.

    —

  • Holding Space for My Daughter While Missing My Mom

    One of the hardest parts of losing my mom has been watching my daughter lose her grandma. They were incredibly close. Two peas in a pod. They just got each other. Their connection was this perfect mix of warmth, sass, and humor. I have always seen so much of my mom in my daughter. It’s wild, honestly. But that’s how genetics work, right? Sometimes it feels like little pieces of my mom are still walking around in my kid. I’m sure people feel like little pieces of my mom are still walking around in me. The apples haven’t fallen too far from the tree. That much is true.

    Grief is strange and heavy and messy. Especially when you’re trying to hold space for someone else’s grief while carrying your own. When my daughter needs to talk about my mom, I try to be present, calm, strong. But it’s really hard. I miss my mom. I almost always end up in tears. Then, she’s the one comforting me instead of me comforting her. She hugs me. She reassures me. She asks if I’m okay.

    I feel guilty. I want to be strong for her. I want to be her anchor. But I’m also human. I’m grieving right alongside her. Maybe there’s strength in that… showing her that adults feel deeply, that we don’t always have it all together, and that it’s okay to fall apart sometimes.

    There’s a strange kind of beauty in grieving together. In crying on the same couch. In remembering the same adventures. In missing the same person. Maybe it’s that old saying, misery loves company. Grief is a bit miserable. But this, this is not miserable. It’s tender. It’s real. It’s raw. And I am going to sit with my daughter through our grief and our growth. Always (or for as long as she’ll let me).

    2023 was brutal. Everything changed. She lost so much. I lost my mom. But now, things are slowly starting to feel steady again. The chaos is settling. The ground beneath us doesn’t shake quite so often. We’re finding some sort of new normal.

    We’re going to be okay. Not the same. Never the same.
    But we’re going to get through this.

    —

  • My Mom Was a Functioning Alcoholic. And Still a Good Mom

    Two years… My mom died two years ago — June 23, 2023. It happened fast. She went into the hospital on June 14 and never came home. Liver failure. Alcoholism. That’s what took her.

    My mom was a functioning alcoholic.

    So let’s talk about it.

    She went to work. She took care of her kids. She crossed her t’s and dotted her i’s. She liked to have a good time. And most people didn’t see a problem.

    When I called to share the news, so many people said the same thing: “I always remember her with a drink in her hand.”
    “She was the life of the party.”

    It’s strange hearing people say that with fondness, when that’s also what killed her.

    But here’s the thing: she was still a good mom.
    That might be hard for some people to understand.

    Addiction is complicated. It’s messy. It doesn’t always look like chaos. Sometimes it looks like your mom making dinner, getting up early, teaching a classroom full of kids, calling to check on you, and holding the whole damn family together — while still slowly disappearing behind the scenes.

    I didn’t know how bad it was.
    She drank when I was a kid, sure, but I don’t remember her ever being fucked up. I remember her being there. I remember her showing up.

    As I got older, I noticed more. Maybe she was drinking more. Maybe I was just paying better attention. I was an adult, seeing her not just as Mom, but as a full person.

    I loved my mom fiercely. We were close. I talked to her every single day. The kind of mom you call when something funny happens, or when everything feels heavy and you need to hear, “You’re doing okay.” She was one of my best friends.

    She gave me more than I think she ever gave herself.

    Grief is strange. It doesn’t unfold in a straight line.
    I miss my mom so much.

    And I have so many questions for her.

    But the loudest one is:
    Why didn’t you get help?

    Addiction is real.
    Help is out there.
    Please, if you’re struggling, reach for it.

    —