It has been four days.
Four days since the world shifted in a way I didn’t know it could. Four days since time started moving in this strange, unfamiliar rhythm where everything continues—but nothing feels the same.
My mom died.
Even writing those words doesn’t feel real yet.
She had been in and out of the hospital for most of the past year. A cycle we kept hoping would break in the direction we wanted. Hope became routine. So did fear. But earlier that day, she told me something different. Something final.
“There’s nothing more they can do.”
She wanted to go home.
And she did. She got her wish. She made it home. She commented on the flowers and the trees starting to bloom. She walked into her home. But she was only there for less than an hour before everything changed.
I got a text from my sister telling me to come out. There was urgency in it, the kind you don’t question. I got there as fast as I could. Five, maybe ten minutes passed—but time felt warped, stretched thin and too fast all at once.
We were trying to get her to respond. Calling her name. Hoping for anything. Waiting for first responders. My sister on the phone with 911. Chaos, fear, disbelief—all wrapped into one unbearable moment.
And then there was the clock.
Every hour, it plays a tune. Something gentle, something easy to ignore most days. But at 7 p.m., it played Amazing Grace.
And it was loud.
Unnaturally loud. Overwhelmingly loud.
It cut through everything—through our voices, through the panic, through the noise of the moment. I could barely hear myself speaking. I could barely hear anything except that song.
And somehow, I knew.
That was the moment she left.
I don’t know how to explain that kind of knowing. It just settles into you. Quiet and absolute.
She was gone.
I’ve been told I should write everything down. That it helps. That memory gets strange after loss—that details blur, moments soften, edges fade. But I don’t want this to fade. I need to remember it. Not just how she died—but how she lived.
Because she was an incredible person.
The kind of person you assume will always be there because she always has been. The kind of presence that feels permanent. Safe. Constant.
And now she’s not here.
People say, “You’ll be okay.” And I believe that—eventually. We will be okay.
But we are not okay right now.
Right now, everything hurts. Right now, the world feels off balance. Right now, I don’t know how to exist in a version of life where she isn’t part of it.
How do you cope with losing someone who has always been there?
How do you redefine “normal” when normal is gone?
These are the questions I keep coming back to. And I don’t have answers yet.
Maybe there aren’t clear answers. Maybe it’s something you learn slowly, painfully, over time. Maybe “normal” doesn’t come back—maybe you just build something new around the space they left behind.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m going to keep writing. Because I need to. Because I don’t want to forget anything. Because she deserves to be remembered—in every detail, in every story, in every moment that made her who she was. I also need to hear all of the stories. All of the memories. Tell me everything.
And if you’re reading this because you’re going through something similar—because you’ve lost someone, or you’re about to, or you’re just trying to make sense of grief—maybe we can figure this out together.
Because I don’t have it figured out.
Not even close.
Monday and Tuesday are her viewing and funeral.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through those days.
But I will.
Somehow, I will.
Because she raised me to.
Incase you're wondering. I waited until 7pm the next day to see if that clock played the same song at the same time. It didn't.
