the fellow fashionista

I write this as I prepare for two years without you, Mom.

There are moments when, for just a second, I think you’re still here on earth, and then a sinking feeling washes over me. You’re not coming back. On this earth, I will never see you again. I’ll never talk to you again. I’ll never laugh or cry with you again.

You rarely cried. You were incredibly strong. I still don’t know how you managed the disease or the pain.

There are moments I think of you.

I was chewing gum while I was driving, snapping it as I went. I thought of you. You didn’t chew gum often because you couldn’t help but snap it.

I wanted to text you my new finds from HomeGoods. I don’t necessarily reach for my phone anymore, but the thought that you’d love this is still there. We never went to HomeGoods together, and I know that things you showed us were probably from there—like the napkins you bought for the holidays.

This past week, I was updating some decor in my bathroom, and I know I would’ve been telling you about it and sharing photos. You would’ve said, “That looks like you,” just like when I was 10 years old and picking out boho-style clothing at JC Penney—something you wouldn’t wear, but it was what I liked.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of you in some way. I desperately want to reach out to you, and you’ll never fade from my thoughts.

There are songs that remind me of you; sometimes they’re about loss, grief, or even mothers, while other times, they’re not even about those topics yet still evoke memories of you. Sometimes I can sit and appreciate them; other times, I can’t in that moment. And I know that’s okay. It’s all okay.

I love seeing your handwriting every day because it’s on my wrist. People ask me about it. My PA noticed it this week at my physical. Patients ask about it too. Every time I have my blood drawn and they use my left arm, they ask what the numbers mean. I get to tell them it’s the number of days we spent on earth together and how there’s a special connection between our phone numbers reflected in those days.

You know how much I loved looking at photos.

Since I scanned all our family photos, I can find any one of them within minutes. I’ve seen every single photo we have, but I crave new ones—photos of you, new moments captured, and even old memories revisited.

There are days when looking at photos feels calming. Other days, it’s like tearing off a Band-Aid that’s pulled off my entire head of hair. Some days are incredibly difficult, yet I still look through our memories because of those good moments.

We didn’t reflect on it together, as we were always searching for hope and a brighter future. Still, it can be hard to confront the hospital journey you endured though images. I can’t imagine what it was like for you every day. Watching your smile change was truly heart-wrenching.

Between you and Jacqueline, I can’t begin to imagine what it was like to miss out on your granddaughter’s birth while you were in the ICU. Or to give birth to your daughter while your mom entered the ICU. (I believe we didn’t share that detail with Jacqueline until the next day; being in the hospital was challenging enough.)

Sometimes I don’t just miss a memory. I miss the version of us that never got to exist—the conversations we never had, the advice I never got to ask for, the person I would have become with you cheering me on from the sidelines.

If I ever do have children, you won’t be there. You won’t be at my wedding or help plan any showers, or even be there to find my wedding dress.

Those are the moments where, even as I write this, I can imagine you being there, if only for a few seconds.

There are times when I feel guilt for thinking this, as if it somehow diminishes how grateful I am for the 11,443 days I spent with you.

I know you wouldn’t want me to be angry or sad, but those feelings endure.

So many times, all I want is a hug, and we weren’t even big huggers.

I didn’t necessarily share all the details of work with you, but I wish I had opened up more. Since you left two years ago, I’ve experienced a lot of changes at work—a sign that you won’t see me in those life stages anymore.

I do mention you in sessions when I feel it’s appropriate for self-disclosure. Although I wish so tremendously that I had not lost you, I understand that it helps me connect with my patients who have faced various losses and grief. Grief isn’t solely about death.

I find myself grieving who you were before you got sick. I grieve not being able to see the live-action The Little Mermaid together, and how I had to watch it alone while you were in the hospital.

This past year, as I transitioned into a full-time outpatient therapist, I felt ready for this change—something I once had doubts about, grappling with imposter syndrome.

Creating my office space and including a piece of you (and Dad, but I know you picked the lamps) has meant so much to me. I touch those lamps you bought over 40 years ago every day when I turn them on during office hours.

When patients compliment the decor, I get to share that they are your lamps. I know I would have shown you everything about how I decorated my office.

My love for decorating hasn’t changed. The urge to rearrange things is always there—just like when I would get excited to tell you after staying up late moving my bedroom around or when you’d come upstairs to change for church and see everything rearranged again.

Although it’s hard, I am still trying to live each day fully. I still tend to overthink things. It would be nice to have you ground me, but I’m working on it independently.

I still feel the need to change my decorations at home. I blame you for that, as you always refreshed the decor for each holiday and bought new items every year—though probably not to the same extent as me or Jacqueline.

I’ve been on quite a few dates this past year and even had a relationship for a bit. It was difficult when you were sick because I didn’t want to burden you with that. You were so strong and didn’t need the added stress. The first year after losing you was hard for this reason too.

I’m so happy to have Penny. I remember I was scared to tell you I’d put in an adoption application impulsively and accepted without informing you, even though I had talked about adopting a dog for years. I had to call you that same morning because I forgot my license, and I knew you had a copy you could send me.

I know that regardless of the decisions I made, you would have loved and cared for me just the same.

When I post about you, people always comment or message me about how kind you were.

You were so kind, Mom. And so generous. Not just to Dad, Jacqueline, and me (and, of course, the kiddos), but to everyone around you.

Not that you couldn’t get feisty—I definitely inherit that from you—but your generosity was remarkable. The amount of gifts you’d make was incredible. Every one of your nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews received pillows or bags or something special that you crafted with love.

You had a talent for fixing things. I still miss how easily you could mend or create. I haven’t even fixed a pair of shorts I wore the last day Penny was at your house, even though I bought hem tape!

Your kindness and generosity have left a lasting impact on me. Every time I’m kind or generous towards someone, whether it’s intentional or instinctive, I know that it’s a reflection of you. Your spirit continues to live on in my actions.

My apartment finally feels like home. I wish you could see it. I’ve been going to therapy regularly. I’m still trying to put myself out there to find my person. Penny still keeps me on my toes.

I get to see the kids often, and I continue to talk to them about you. They’re very blunt and often bring up that you’re dead or that you died; I don’t know how that couldn’t ground me.

I continue to enjoy crafts, and for the littlest one’s birthday, I gave her a Penny stuffed animal since she loves Penny so much and adores dogs in general.

The flowers I bought around Mother’s Day are still alive. Just the other night, while I was watering them, my neighbor below me complimented their beauty. I told her how much they remind me of you.

Two years later, I miss you every day.

I still wish I could call you and share the little things that happen in my life. I still find myself looking for you in ordinary moments.

I don’t know if that feeling will ever change, and perhaps it isn’t meant to. I’ll keep telling you about my life anyway. I hope, somehow, you still know.