Dear Mom

The beginning of this new school year also brought a new wave of grief for me as I continue to walk forward in the wake of my mom’s passing.

For years, every weekday at 2:35 pm, I gathered a bag of after school snacks and my steeping mug of hot tea (iced matcha now—iykyk). I hopped into my car geared up for a minimum of 1.5 hours of carpool. Before I even turned out of my street, I dialed my mom, who faithfully manned her phone like a soldier on duty, ready and waiting for any child or sister to call. (With the exception of my dad, we are very much a family of “phone people”).

This recent heartache caught me off guard, as I find myself, once again, fighting back tears on my weekday ritual, wishing I could call her one. more. time.

They say grief comes in waves and that there is no timeline. While I don’t necessarily know who “they” are, I can attest “they” are not wrong.

My goals and aspirations for 2025 took a different turn than I mapped out back in January (isn’t that always the way?). I found myself trading the performing, striving, goal achieving, and writing I planned in exchange for healing, self-care, and the beginning of untangling so many facets of both my physical and emotional life that had gone unchecked for far too long (did I mention I have four kids?!?).

Perhaps, that is why a new wave of grief has surfaced? As I heal, layers of busyness, achieving, and people pleasing that I used to masked my pain are slowly falling away, revealing a new level of grief. While my instinct is to want to run and throw myself into another project, I am trying to lean in and let the grief come, knowing I am not alone as I process and heal.

I miss my mom most in the mundane, ordinary, routine parts of our life. I ache to tell her everything! So, as an alternative, I decided to attempt the cathartic process of writing her a letter, telling her a few of the thousands of things I wish she knew…

Dear Mom,

As we approach the two year anniversary of your cancer diagnosis, I feel the need to fill you in on a few things…

I am trying my best to instill in my daughters the two things you told me that I never listened to:

1. Wear sunscreen.

2. Play as much tennis as possible, because you will be able to play it for the rest of your life.

I reiterate this to my girls weekly as I sunscreen their faces before they hit the courts, all three knowing how proud you would be of them.

(You also said nothing good happens after midnight, but we’ll get to that later…)

Speaking of tennis, I am also dipping my toe into playing more tennis and finally joined a team. I love playing more than I expected, see a significant boost in my mental health, consistently close all three rings on my watch, and feel close to you by doing something you loved so much.

But in actuality, Colorado is the place I feel closest to you, especially in Vail. Thank you for making us a skiing family. Though I complained about it most of my life (unless skiing involved boys!), I now see first-hand with my own children your motto that “the family that skis together, stays together.” Few things bring me as much joy as skiing with my family.

Your “Honey-isms” continue to spread, even to friends who never met you. The two most popular being “never pass a potty” and your invention of the “Post-Party-Wrap-Up,” which now has been shortened to “PPWU.” (PPWU is defined as “a lively and zealous debrief of a fabulous event—no detail too small not to be mentioned”).

Our family is finally at one school. You pushed me to try, even at your weakest point, and I’m so thankful you did!

Since you passed away, the only day I was thankful you were no longer with us was the day Tony Bennet retired from coaching UVA basketball. I think that might have been too much for you to bear, and I’m sorry to be the one to break the news.

Your voice comes through often when mothering my children. Just last week, the two lines I deployed were:

“What you say is right, but the way you say it is not.”

“We are a team, and we stick together!”

I remain deeply grateful to you for the gift of four siblings. Next to Jesus, my siblings are my greatest lifeline in the wake of losing you. Thank you for the deep bench you provided us. I won’t steal their thunder and write their letters for them; these two years have been hard on each of us in different ways, but thankfully, we are still a team, and we are sticking together.

I could write this letter for days and it would only scratch the surface. Perhaps I will write more one day, but for now, know you are deeply missed and utterly irreplaceable. I can’t wait to see you living your best life in heaven one day—you always loved a party!

PS: Your two newest granddaughters are, as you would say, “SO cute!” I dream of sneaking them to Atlanta and raising them as my own.