Grief. Can. Die.

Grief. (n).“The anguish experienced after significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person. Grief is often distinguished from bereavement and mourning. Not all bereavements result in a strong grief response, and not all grief is given public expression. Grief often includes physiological distress, separation anxiety, confusion, yearning, obsessive dwelling on the past, and apprehension about the future. […] Grief may also take the form of regret for something lost, remorse for something done, or sorrow for a mishap to oneself.” — APA Dictionary of Psychology.

Grief is weird.

It has been almost three years since she passed. Looking at the number, it seems like it was not that long ago. Three. A small number. Short and simple. Yet those years have felt like they dragged on for 5, 10, 15, maybe even 100 years.

Grief.

I've experienced grief and loss before all of this happened. I was abandoned at birth and had to face the physical and emotional pain of losing my birth parents, a natural grieving process that many adoptees experience. That's a whole other story. I've also lost many beloved cats over the years, and it was painful every time.

But nothing ever prepares you for the deep sadness that comes with losing a parent. Nothing prepares you for losing pieces of yourself along with them.

Three years.

Just when you think you've reached a point where you don't cry whenever you think of her, the dam breaks. Everything triggers a memory, and suddenly you're crying wherever you are. I call them "grief attacks." You can't control them, prevent them, or tell your body to stop hyperventilating. You just have to let the wave roll through you and let it out.

Her birthday is approaching. June 25.

A very stubborn Cancer, and I happily inherited that stubbornness from her.

There are a few days each year that turn me back into the little girl who desperately misses her mom, and for some reason, her birthday is one of them. She never really liked celebrating her birthday, and we usually did something small and low-key to acknowledge the day.

Yet I find myself wishing she were here so I could say, "Happy Birthday! You're sooooo old. You're more ANCIENT!"

She would roll her eyes, and I would laugh.

Our birthdays were never anything extraordinary, but I find myself wanting to relive them anyway. The mundane moments are the ones I miss the most.

Grief is stupid.

I play a card game called Tales. It's a question-and-answer game where each player responds to prompts. I use it with a few friends via text messages to check in and maintain those friendships.

Recently, one card asked:

"If you could have a perfect memory of any day of your life, which would you choose?"

I didn't expect that question to hit me so hard.

I assumed I would pick the best or most exciting day I'd ever had. But as I started thinking through my favorite memories, I realized something.

Almost all of them included her.

The dam broke.

My answer was my first day of kindergarten.

I remember that day so vividly.

I remember being nervous. I was going to a big-kid school, the same school my big brother attended. I also remember seeing my mom's nervous face.

The night before, she sat down with me and explained exactly what the next morning would look like. I'd wake up early, get dressed, eat breakfast, and walk to school with my brother.

Simple.

The next morning, I was jittery and anxious. As it got closer to the time to leave, my mom told me to put on my backpack, which felt enormous on my tiny frame.

Then she pointed toward the door.

I knew it was time.

As I started walking out, she grabbed my hand.

I was surprised. I figured she'd let go after a block or so.

But she didn't.

She held my hand tightly all the way to school. My brother had already gone ahead with some neighborhood kids. As we walked, my nerves slowly disappeared. I was simply happy that my mom, who worked so hard and couldn't always attend every event, had made time to be there for my big day.

When we arrived, I waved goodbye.

But she still didn't let go.

She walked me inside and all the way to my classroom.

Being a shy kid, I immediately tried to hide behind her legs and avoid eye contact with everyone. She gently nudged me forward and pointed toward the other students.

I squeezed her hand even tighter.

She smiled and nodded.

So I let go.

As I walked toward the classroom, I looked back and saw her standing there, smiling through tears.

Then she turned and walked away.

The walk lasted maybe five minutes. The entire interaction couldn't have been more than ten.

But it meant everything to me.

Grief is endless.

Whenever I was about to experience something new, she was there to comfort and support me. Whenever I asked for something and she initially refused, she usually gave in by the end.

Growing up, I couldn't fully appreciate the sacrifices she made for us.

I'm not a parent, so I'll never fully understand the depth of her love or everything she willingly gave up to bring us joy.

She wasn't the kind of mom who showered us with hugs and kisses. Sometimes my brother and I even envied kids whose moms did.

But she was always our number-one cheerleader.

It didn't matter if our interests didn't align with her own values or preferences. She showed up anyway. She encouraged us to try our best, pursue our goals, and find fulfillment in whatever made us happy.

I think that's one of the reasons I've become the teacher I am today.

Some teachers might say I go off on too many whims or give in to my students too often. They're probably right.

But I love my students to death.

If there's a way to help them smile, laugh, create memories, or feel proud of themselves, I'll probably do it. I may not be the perfect teacher, but like my mom, I'm willing to do whatever I can to make sure those kids have a good day.

Grief.

You never realize how precious ordinary moments are until they're gone.

I didn't just lose my mom.

I lost pieces of myself, too.

Almost three years later, I'm still picking up those pieces.

Sometimes I envy daughters who complain about their moms. The petty arguments. The eye rolls. The disagreements.

I would give anything to have that again.

I mean, who takes a mom away from her 22-year-old daughter when she's just starting her life?

That's totally f-ed up.

Grief.

I hate you.