It has been two weeks since mom died.
Writing that still feels unreal—like I’m talking about someone else’s life, someone else’s loss. But here I am, two weeks into a world that feels both quieter and somehow louder at the same time.
I was so worried before her viewing. Not about the logistics, not about the crowd—but about her. About how she would look. I kept thinking, what if she doesn’t look like my mom? What if that final image replaced all the good ones?
But she looked… beautiful. Peaceful. Like herself. And that mattered more than I can explain.
The line for her viewing stretched so far it honestly reminded me of a queue at Disney World. And if you knew my mom, that would make her laugh. She never met a stranger, and apparently, even in death, she had a full audience. People stood in line with stories, memories, laughter tucked between tears. It felt like everyone had their own version of her—and every single one was kind.
We’ve been overwhelmed in the best possible way. Cards filling the mailbox. Meals showing up at the door just when cooking feels impossible. Gift cards to use at later dates. Flowers brightening rooms that feel a little dimmer now. And the stories… so many stories. Ones we’ve heard before and ones we haven’t. It’s like we’re still discovering pieces of her, even now.
In the middle of all of this, I took the Disney trip I already had planned. That felt strange at first—how do you step into a place built on magic when your heart feels so heavy? But I went, and I did it for her.
I did all of Mom’s favorite things. I watched the fireworks in the back of the park. I ate the desserts without guilt. I said yes to the little indulgences. A cast member gifted us each an ice cream Mickey bar out of nowhere—just pixie dusted us—and I swear that felt like something she arranged.
I cried in the most unexpected place: buying sunscreen. Because Mom would never have forgotten sunscreen. She would have packed extra, reminded everyone twice, probably had a backup in her purse “just in case.” And there I was, standing in a gift shop, realizing I had to be the one who remembers now.
But even in that moment, something shifted.
I met Dorothy, a Disney employee who had lost her husband last year. We started talking—because of course we did. That’s what Mom would have done. Strike up a conversation in the middle of nowhere and walk away knowing someone’s life story. Dorothy shared hers, I shared mine, and for a few minutes, grief felt… understood. Dorothy hugged me every time she saw me the rest of the trip.
And I caught myself doing it again and again—chatting in line, talking to people on buses, making small connections that didn’t feel so small. It hit me that this is part of her that didn’t leave. It’s still here, in the way I show up in the world.
Two weeks in, I’m learning that grief isn’t just sadness. It’s love with nowhere to go, so it spills out in strange places—like check out lines and bus rides and conversations with strangers.
I miss her in a thousand tiny ways. But I’m also starting to see her everywhere—in kindness, in laughter, in stories, and in the parts of myself I didn’t realize came from her.
And if the line at her viewing proved anything, it’s this:
She mattered. Deeply. Widely. Unforgettably.
