Her.

Some people just say “Mom,” like it’s a regular word.

But for me, it was always her.

She was the first face I looked for in a crowd, the last voice I heard before falling asleep. She was the one I wanted to tell when something went wrong—and the one I wanted to tell when something went right. Her. Not just any mom. Mine.

And I lost her.

Today marks two years since she passed.

Two whole years since I’ve heard her voice, felt her hug, or laughed with her until my stomach hurt. Two years of waking up and remembering all over again that she’s not here.

And tomorrow… is Mother’s Day.

Let that one sink in.

It’s almost cruel, how those two dates line up. The reminder of the day I lost her followed immediately by the day the world wants to celebrate her. And I want to—I really do. But part of me still aches. Part of me still whispers, “I’m not ready.”

It’s strange, really, how the world doesn’t stop when your world does. You still get mail. People still honk in traffic. You still have to remember passwords and pay your bills. But everything feels off-kilter because you’ve lost the person who anchored your entire life.

Some days, I still reach for my phone to text her something ridiculous—like a picture of Dolly with a salamander in her mouth, or Jenny sleeping belly-up like a tiny diva. I still hear her voice when I cook something she taught me, or when I smell lavender, or when I cry the kind of cry that only she could soothe.

She was my compass, even when I pretended I didn’t need one.

Now, when I do something brave—like starting over in midlife, or speaking up for myself, or finally letting go of the people who don’t deserve me—I imagine her smiling and saying, “There she is. That’s my girl.”

Because even though she’s gone, she’s still her.

The one who made me.

The one who knew me.

The one who loved me before I ever knew how to love myself.

I’m not sure I’ll ever stop grieving her.

But I’m also not sure I’ll ever stop being shaped by her.

She is the reason I know how to comfort, how to forgive, how to fight, and how to laugh at all the wrong moments. She is why I love so fiercely and why I’ll always believe that softness is a strength. She was complicated and bold and so beautifully flawed—and that makes me proud to be her daughter.

So on the hard days, like today, when I feel lost or lonely or unsure, I just whisper back to the universe:

“I’m still listening, Mom.”

Because I know she never really left.

She’s just her.

Forever