Four months.

Four months since mom died.

I used to say we lost mom, but lost sounds like there's a hope in finding them. Death is final.

And I’m not really sure how I’m doing.

That’s probably the most honest answer I can give.

I don’t talk about it much anymore. I don’t tell people when I’m having a hard day. I don’t always tell anyone when I’m sad. Most of the time, I just keep moving.

I go to work. I come home. I take care of the house. I work on projects. I make plans. I laugh when something is funny. I answer messages. I take pictures. I make lists. I keep my mind occupied.

From the outside, I’m functioning.

But inside, there is this strange numbness. This feeling of complete invisibility. 

It’s not that I don’t feel anything. I feel everything. I just feel it differently now.

There is a heaviness underneath everything.

Before Mom died, she was woven into the ordinary parts of my day. I talked to her every day. Sometimes more than once.

There was always someone I could call.

Something funny happened? Call Mom.

Something frustrating happened? Call Mom.

Need to tell someone something completely insignificant that nobody else would care about? Call Mom.

Sometimes we talked about important things. Sometimes we talked about absolutely nothing.

And now there is no one to call.

That part is harder than I think people realize.

It isn’t just missing someone at birthdays or holidays or big moments.

It’s missing them in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.

It’s reaching for your phone and remembering.

It’s having a thought that would normally become a conversation and realizing there is nowhere for it to go.

I’ve tried to keep my mind busy.

Projects help. Work helps. Having something to accomplish helps.

If I stay busy enough, I can go hours without really thinking about it.

And honestly, sometimes that’s exactly what I need.

But then the house gets quiet.

The day is over.

The distractions disappear.

And nighttime has a way of bringing everything back.

That’s when my brain unravels.

That’s when I think about her.

That’s when I replay things.

That’s when I feel the size of the space she left behind.

I think that’s one of the hardest things about grief. You can spend an entire day being productive and almost convince yourself that you’re okay.

And then you’re alone with your thoughts, and suddenly you’re right back in it.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of missing her.

I’m tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m not.

I’m tired of carrying this quiet sadness around while still doing all the things that need to be done.

I’m tired of trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be now.

Because the death of your mom doesn’t just mean losing a person.

It changes the shape of your life.

There is a before and an after.

And I’m still learning how to live in the after.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been isolating myself.

Maybe talking about it makes it more real.

Maybe I’m afraid that if I really let myself feel everything, I won’t know how to pull myself back together.

So instead, I keep going.

I keep busy.

I keep moving.

And I wait for the moments when the numbness lifts, even if just for a little while.

I know grief isn’t linear.

I know four months isn’t a long time.

I know there isn’t a schedule for this.

But some days I just want to feel like myself again.

I want to laugh without the sadness sitting right behind it.

I want to make plans without thinking about who isn’t here to hear about them.

I want the quiet to feel peaceful instead of lonely.

I want to stop having that moment where I remember I can’t call my mom anymore.

Maybe someday that moment won’t hurt quite so much.

Maybe someday I will think of her and feel more warmth than pain.

Maybe someday the memories will feel like a gift instead of something that knocks the air out of me.

I don’t know when that will be.

But I have to believe it will get better.

Not necessarily back to the way it was.

Maybe better just means learning how to carry her with me without feeling like I’m being crushed by the weight of losing her.

So for now, I’m taking it one day at a time.

Some days I’m okay.

Some days I’m numb.

Some days I’m sad.

Some days I’m all of those things at once.

And some nights, I miss my mom so much that I don’t know what to do with the feeling.

But I’m still here.

I’m still moving forward.

Even when it doesn’t feel like progress.

And maybe, for right now, that’s enough.

Four months without Mom.

I still miss her every single day.

And I’m tired.

But I have to believe it will get better.