2O years ago, as my mother was still breathing, I sat behind my computer and typed: “𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦?”

I was twelve. An hour later, she was gone.

Grief isn’t just measured in years. It’s the memories that stay, the love that lingers. It’s in the stories we tell, in the words that bring her back to me. Writing became my way of holding on—not just to moments, but to her. When I write, I hear her laugh, see her smile, even catch the faint scent of her perfume on a scarf I describe.

But as time moved forward, the memories without her began to outnumber the ones with her. They compounded—happy ones, sad ones, milestones I had wished she had been there for. Moments I had longed for her to witness, to celebrate, to lift me up, to hold me.

The first 10 years were dark—floating, longing for love, searching for a place to belong. Then, when enough was enough, I put on my red Nikes, strapped on a backpack, and went looking for the light.

One February 1st, on a beach in Thailand, I wrote:
"𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘐 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯." (A Far Cry from Yesterday: Finding Tomorrow in Distant Lands)

The next 10 years were brighter—I see the sun again, Mom. I look for you in the stars at night. I stop every time the moon appears through my window. You are, and forever will be, my guiding light.

But missing you? I still miss you as much as the day I lost you.