Because I Lost My Mom: 6 Gifts I Now Appreciate

“The only thing you sometimes have control over is perspective. You don’t have control over your situation. But you have a choice about how you view it.” ~Chris Pine

I had a happy, carefree childhood up until a point. I remember lots of giggles, hugs, and playfulness. One summer, as we were sitting in my grandmother’s yard enjoying her homemade cake, my mum’s right hand started trembling.

My worried grandmother encouraged her to eat, but her hand continued to tremble. I remember her troubled look. She must have sensed something was wrong.

Just three months later, she was gone. Acute leukemia meant that on Monday she received the results of a worrying blood test, on Wednesday she was admitted to the hospital, and by Friday she had died. I was only ten years old.

My aunt broke the news to us that Friday afternoon by saying, “Your mum has gone to the sky.”

If I were to explain what the news of her passing felt like, I would say it was like being hit by lightning. I’ve read that in cases of sudden death, children can stay stuck in some sort of confusing reality: They hear what happened and react to the news, but they don’t quite comprehend it. Somehow, deep inside, they don’t really believe it.

In my case, and for years following my mum’s death, I thought that she had gone to the sky, but that she would come back. It was just a trip, or a bad joke.

She would most definitely come back.

As you might be guessing, I did not get much support in dealing with my grief. On the contrary, the message I got was that life should go on. That a page had turned, but the preceding pages weren’t worth reading.

This is also how all the adults around me acted. So, even though lightning had struck me, I simply stood up and continued to walk, despite all the invisible damage it had done.

The wake-up call to locate that damage and try to repair it came years later when I started experiencing health issues that my doctors said were linked to chronic stress. That’s when I finally decided to face my grief. My young adult body was giving me a clear sign: There were too many unprocessed emotions, desperately needing to find a way out.

Once I allowed myself to finally feel that my heart had been shattered in a million pieces, I started putting those pieces together and redefining who I was.

If my life were a book, grief would be the longest chapter. When I meet someone for the first time, I almost feel like saying, “Hi, I’m Annie, and my mum suddenly died when I was ten.” That’s how much it defines who I am.

Negatively, you might think.

Indeed, her absence still causes tremendous pain. I never felt this more than when I had my own children a few years ago. Becoming a mother does not mean that you stop being a daughter who needs her mother. You also become a mother who would like her children to have a grandmother.

My mother is not there to spoil my daughters, and they will never get to know her. There is no one I can ask to find out how I was as a baby. She isn’t there to listen to my worries or fears while I navigate parenthood.

I still get a ping in my heart when I see ten-year-old girls with their mums, seeing myself in them and re-living the immensity of such a loss. And as I am approaching the age she was when she died, I’m terrified that I will share the same fate and that my girls will grow up without me.

Nevertheless—and I know this might sound contradictory, but aren’t grief and life full of contradictions?—in many ways, her absence has also been a gift.

Thanks to her:

–I fully embrace the idea “live every day as if it is your last” because I know that there is a very real possibility that this day might indeed be my very last. While you might think this means living life with fear, quite the opposite is true. It means living life full of appreciation, gratitude, and love for this body that is still functioning, for the people around me, and for life itself.

–I choose to be truly present with my children and close ones and cherish deep relationships because I want to make the time we spend together count. If the memories we are creating are shorter for whatever reason, let them be powerful.

–I have a job that gives me a deep sense of purpose and meaning because anything else would make me feel like I am wasting precious time that I don’t necessarily have. I’m honored to be making a difference in other people’s lives by helping them think differently about their lives and helping them through their own grief. I make it my goal to share my gifts with the world while I live on this planet.

–I am (relatively) comfortable with the challenges that life throws at me. When you survive after the tragedy of losing a parent, you don’t sweat the small stuff as much. I still find myself getting upset by little things like anyone else, but I’m able to quickly change my perspective and realize that many of the things that upset us are not as important as we first think.

–I know that I cannot control life because life is utterly uncontrollable. In fact, I was a control freak for years, trying to make sure nothing tragic would ever happen to me or my loved ones again, until I realized that this was a reaction to my mum’s passing. I now know this isn’t a way to live life, and that is liberating.

–I take care of my health to feel good in my body, not because I want to live until I’m 100, but because I want to live well. I don’t want my days to be filled with the common ailments that people usually accept, such as headaches, brain fog, or digestive issues. I can only enjoy life fully if my body is allowing me to do so.

If you have experienced early loss but cannot possibly imagine feeling anything positive about it, there is nothing wrong with you. I am sharing my story to perhaps inspire you or even give you comfort.

Perhaps all you can do right now is stay open to the possibility that at some point in your life, you might be able to see things in a similar way. Ultimately, the path of grief is entirely unique.

Would I wish early loss on anyone? Never.

Has grief made me happier? Perhaps.

Has it made me wiser? Definitely.

Just as a friend once told me, “You can’t appreciate light without the shadows.”