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.