Just because it burns, it doesn’t mean you’re gonna die. You’ve gotta get up and try. ~Alecia Moore

One of the biggest voids I find while I continue to struggle with the “loss” of my mother is that I no longer have the privilege of hearing her voice any time I want. Words are extremely limited now. I could be with her for an entire day and not hear her utter a single word. There is no option to turn to her for advice or comfort. That has been ripped from us all now. Like so much else.

I can remember one Christmas season after college I was determined to make my mother’s peanut butter balls (buckeyes for the rest of the world.) I had watched her do it every Christmas for as long as I can remember and knew what to do. She sent me the recipe and off I went, creating my mom’s tradition for my own little family at the time. Except, I used granulated sugar instead of powdered sugar. It was a complete disaster. I called her in tears. I was literally sobbing on my kitchen floor while talking to my mom. She sat on the phone with me as I went through every extreme emotion I was feeling from being a failure to not feeling like I could be a good domestic partner. She let me just sob and sob.

And then, when I was finally done, she told me to go get powdered sugar and do it again. I told her there wasn’t a chance I was putting myself through that torture and mess again. And she just said to me in the softest, loveliest voice, “Amy, you have to do it again. You have to try again.” And, of course, she was right. As ridiculous as this sounds, that experience has always stuck with me. The way she supported me through something as silly as using the wrong ingredient in a dessert. There was nothing in her power my mother wouldn’t do for me. She always showed up for me. And she always reminded me to try.

It is one of the biggest pieces of my mother that I hope to carry with me, proving to my daughter that unconditional love and support exists. For that is how my mother loved me, without judgement and completely full of love and support.

Life has felt exceptionally hard for me lately. There are days I am struggling to get out of bed. There are days that I do not want to leave my condo. Some days the thought of having to make my daughter’s lunch for school feels impossible. There are days when the heavy weight of all of my responsibilities is too much to bear. Sometimes my anxiety is so intense that I just lay in bed and cry for hours.

And on those days, I think of my mother. And I hear her tell me that I have to try. I have to try again. So, I do. With a tremendous amount of love and grief.

No one is alone.

Sometimes people leave you, halfway through the wood. Do not let it grieve you, no one leaves for good. — Stephen Sondheim

My mother has Alzheimer’s. She was diagnosed with it at 59 years old, but really, she’s “had” it her whole life. Just as I am sure I do. And devastatingly, just as my daughter does. It’s a heart wrenching disease. One, for me, that is filled with so much sorrow, grief, and anger.

My mother left me when I needed her most. She left me as I was becoming a mother myself. She left me when I was navigating an entire life I had never known before. And, by no fault of her own, she left me when I was approaching some of the most painful times of my life. She left me. Halfway through my woods.

It is a complicated mix of emotions. The utter sadness I feel for my mother’s life being ripped from her is enough to make me not want to get out of bed some days. The pain I feel that my daughter will never be able to experience my mother as her grandmother the way they both deserve rips through me at times. And the anger I feel that this disease has stolen my mother from me, in times when I have needed her most, is overwhelming.

Often when people are trying to find the words to comfort me, they will say things like “your mother is still in there, she still is your mother.” And maybe that is true. Maybe I see glimpses of her when I happen to catch her laughing. I might see pieces of her when she is enjoying a really good dessert, an afternoon of music, or listening to my father read poetry to her. But for the most part, I see the flesh of the woman my mom used to be. I see the agony of a memory that slipped away far sooner than it should have. I see the pain of the people who love her. And I feel the absolute anguish of losing a parent before they are actually gone.

My mother left me. I grieve the loss of her every day. But, I also celebrate the love of her every day. I celebrate it by being the strongest woman I know how to be. I celebrate it by being the best mother I can be. I celebrate it by showing kindness to strangers. I celebrate it by reading to my daughter, the way my mother always read to me. I celebrate it by fiercely loving those who matter to me. I celebrate it by living, for both of us.

And it’s true-what Stephen Sondheim has said-no one leaves for good. My mom is here. Right here inside of me.

Surrounded by love and grief.