Today is the 11^th anniversary of my mom’s death and I’ve been grieving extra hard. In the past, I haven’t used this day to grieve her more than any other day. I haven’t really needed to. For some reason, I woke up this morning missing her more than ever.

Grief is the world’s most nauseating roller coaster. Sometimes I can stomach it but today was simply too much for me. This morning, my heart broke and I spent the entire day attempting to glue it back together.

I watched episodes of Nobody Wants This because I know it’s a show she’d adore. It made me feel a little better, but it’s not a show I care for, so I still felt quite sad when I stopped watching. I tried to workout but moving my body just didn’t feel right and I couldn’t get through any of my usual routines. Finally, I realized I hadn’t written to her since August. Maybe that’s all I needed to do. To check in with the person I’m missing the most.

Writing this letter has helped me find a little peace. If you are grieving, I hope you find peace for yourself.

-Rachel

Dear Mom,

Eleven years ago today, you left this world. I have no idea where you went. If your soul or spirit or essence is existing somewhere out there. Or if you simply ceased to exist entirely.

Eleven years ago today, I was left to figure out life without my mother. To make all the big decisions and go through all the hard moments without the most supportive figure in my life.

It hasn’t always been easy, but somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that life isn’t meant to be easy. It’s complicated. Messy. Distressing. And I was okay with it because life happens to us all. For a while, it worked to distract myself with practical thinking. It helped to remind myself that we all lose our mothers and my loss isn’t unique.

I dove into my adulthood without you. I got married and had kids. I took chances. Changed careers. Made massive life choices. And I did it all without you here, because I had to. These were the cards I was dealt.

Maybe I was actually fine for a while. Or maybe I was really good at pretending. Either way, the veil has officially lifted. Whatever protection I had created for myself is gone. And I’m left feeling so sad. So alone.

This has been my hardest year as a parent. The kids are older. They’re going through significant changes and painful heartache. They’re dealing with real challenges. They have big emotions and severe mood swings. They’re tired, angry, overwhelmed, and overstimulated.

And they’re taking it all out on me. I am their punching bag and I’m taking the hits while doing everything in my power to keep my shit together. To not fall apart in front of them.

This morning, I fell apart. I couldn’t handle the attitude. The talking back. The stomping and slamming and screaming. I couldn’t do the begging. The pleading them to get out of bed. To eat breakfast. To brush teeth and get dressed. I was so tired. So drained. So fucking sad. Maybe it was because I was missing you this morning a little extra. Or maybe it was because I was needing you a little more. Whatever the reason, I needed to cry.

Scotland walked in on me crying and I explained how it was the anniversary of your death, and I was missing you. What I didn’t tell her is that I’ve been struggling as a mom lately. That I’m so totally exhausted, my nervous system is fried, and I’m constantly on edge. I’m stuck in a cycle of helping with homework, cooking meals, running errands, volunteering at school, chaperoning, and chauffeuring.

And as I answer them, remind them, time them, support them, teach them, comfort them, and cherish them, I’m also depleting myself entirely. I’m drained both emotionally and physically. I’m trying so hard to get it all done and no matter how successful I am there is always room for improvement. I’m still making so many mistakes. Mistakes that wouldn’t normally bother me, if it wasn’t for these two tiny humans who refuse to give me a break. Who call out my flaws. Who question my choices. Who tell me I’m mean to them. I’m not being fair. I’m not helping them enough.

All I want is to be wrapped up in your arms. To have your hands pat my back. To have your voice whisper into my ear, “It’s all going to be okay.”

The one thing I need most, I will never have.

And today, Mom, I chose to be pissed about it. I chose to wallow in my feelings and allow myself to soak my pillow with tears. It’s okay to lose my shit and fall apart. It’s okay to lean into my grief and acknowledge that missing you comes in waves and today’s waves were actively knocking me over. It’s okay to cry in front of my kids and to tell them how hard life can be. How unfair life truly can be. How cruel life can be.

I so wish you were here to hold me and help me through this journey, but you’re not. You’re gone and I’m left on my own to pick up the pieces of my broken emotions by myself.

At least, some days it can feel like that.

But I also know, deep down, that I’m so far from being on my own.

When Idris came home from school today, he ran into my arms for the biggest hug. He said he couldn’t even take off his shoes first because he needed to hug me. When Scotland came home she held me and said she was sad all day for me. She was then glued to my side the whole night, taking care of her mom.

I might not have your embrace in my life, but their tiny arms wrapped around me is the next best thing.

I love you, Mom. I miss you and I’m thinking about you extra today.

Love,

Rachel