January is finally ending, though it feels like it took half a year to get here. It’s a month I want to forget, but never will. If I could ask for a do-over, I would.
Four days into the new year, my mom passed away. The world didn’t pause, and almost immediately after, I got really sick. Then came the bone-chilling cold and record-breaking snowfall. Grief had to squeeze itself into whatever space was left. It kept moving while I was just trying to stay upright.
It still doesn’t feel real most days, and I often catch myself wondering if I’m grieving the “right” way—if surviving the day should count as enough. Grief, like my relationship with my mom, is complicated. It’s not neat or predictable. There’s no roadmap. No manual. And even knowing that, I still find myself shaming myself for how this looks. I’m learning, though, that grief doesn’t ask for performance. It asks for tenderness. For compassion. For permission. For honesty.
It allows numbness, laughter, exhaustion, and tears to exist side by side without having to prove myself to anyone.
Some days I manage it. Some days I don’t. All of it is part of grieving.
What I didn’t expect was how often I’d need my mom in the smallest moments. The silly things. The instinct to call her without thinking. Grief lives in those pauses—when your hand reaches for your phone and your heart remembers before your head does.
This week, I kept catching myself half-expecting for my phone to ring, knowing she’d be calling to make sure I wasn’t going outside in the dangerously cold temperatures. I’d be rolling my eyes, reassuring her, “I’m bundled up—and so are Rich and the kids.”
The other night, though, I think it all caught up with me. And something in me broke.
At 1:30 a.m., our house was jolted awake by a fire alarm beeping incessantly after the power went out briefly. Chaos followed— all of us half-asleep, and nerves frayed until we realized it was just a smoke detector that needed a new battery.
Once the house was quiet again, my mind became louder than any fire alarm imaginable.
As I crawled back into bed, sometime after 2 a.m. everything I’d been holding in poured out—grief, anger, exhaustion, denial, bargaining, longing. It wasn’t graceful or calm, but it was necessary. Silent tears quickly erupted into several hours of uncontrollable sobbing.
Rich held me until I could breathe again. No fixing. No answers. Just being there.
I’m still very much in this. But after such a long, heavy month, that night felt like the beginning of allowing myself to grieve instead of pushing it aside. Allowing the messiness. Allowing the truth—even when it doesn’t look like what I thought grief was supposed to look like.
There is no one way to grieve.
There is no timeline.
As January finally comes to an end, I’m not leaving it stronger or wiser. I’m leaving it softer. More honest. More aware of how deeply my mom is still part of my everyday life.
I’m doing my best.
And yes mom, I promise, I’m all bundled up.
January, I’m ready to let you go.
And slowly, gently, I’m ready to begin healing.
I’m reminding myself that I’m not failing at grief.
I’m inside it.
And that’s what matters. 💛
#grief #norightwaytogrieve #permission #gently #honesty #grievingprocess #complicated #youmatter #youareenough #family #motherdaughterrelationships #mentalhealth
YouAreEnough 