Learning to Breathe, Run, and Keep Going After Loss
I lost my mom on August 5, 2025. This is the first time I’m actually writing about it.
This past weekend, we celebrated her life exactly the way she wanted: with a party—a real celebration of life. And while I’ve of course been sad, I also found joy in reminiscing about the time we shared. The memories I will cherish forever will always remain near and dear to my heart.
My mom was an amazing person. Sweet as pie, but also someone you wouldn’t dare mess with. She loved to laugh, joke around, and have fun. Writing about her in the past tense is still so weird. Since her passing, I’ve learned a lot—mainly about how strange, selfish, and disrespectful people can be. Some family members from her side of the family showed up—people I’d only seen once in my lifetime and couldn’t even name if you asked me. People are… different. Instead of admitting they don’t know what to say, they ghost you. They avoid you like you’ve got the plague, all because you’re the one experiencing the loss.
I’m learning to breathe through the sadness instead of drowning in it. Today was a good day. I taught new content to my 11th and 12th graders, and they actually seemed eager to learn. I’m learning about them, and they’re learning about me. When I got this position, it felt like a dream come true—but I never imagined not being able to call my mom to tell her all about it. She always pushed me to chase my dreams. I just wish she had taken her own advice.
At the end of a really good teaching day, there’s no one else I’d rather call than her. I want to hear her say, “That’s a mess,” one last time. But I know she was tired. I know she was in pain. I wouldn’t have wanted her here suffering, and she wouldn’t have wanted that either.
So, after work today, instead of sitting in the sadness, I laced up and went for a run. Just two miles—but it meant everything. For weeks, I hadn’t had the space to breathe. With her being in and out of the hospital, I was always on edge, never knowing if “that day” was coming. Now that she’s gone, I find myself crying just as often from laughing at memories as I do from missing her.
Like the time she had my sister and me stealing from Ross. My mom loved to decorate—nicknacks everywhere, everything coordinated. One day she spotted this brown leather ottoman. It looked normal enough until we realized it was heavier than it should’ve been. We opened it up and—boom—there was another ottoman inside, smaller, but untagged. My mom looked at us, panicked but determined, and told us to close it quickly. Sure enough, the cashier never checked. She walked out with two ottomans for the price of one. We should’ve gone to jail, but that was my mom. She wanted what she wanted—and she usually got it.
Memories like that keep me going, but sometimes they scare me too. I wonder: what if I forget her laugh? Her smell? Her smile? What if I start to forget the details? That’s the hardest part—knowing I’ll never see or hear her again until it’s my time.
To keep her close, I wear her name around my neck, her ring on my finger, and a charm on my bracelet. She’s always with me. And I’ve promised myself to complete every task I told her I would on her deathbed. I know she’s watching—and with the best seat in the house.
That’s why I didn’t come home today and wallow. It was overcast, the air had that post-rain chill, and instead of sinking into sadness, I chose to move. Watching my mom in her final days taught me something: if you don’t use it, you lose it. She wasn’t mobile, and eventually, she just stopped fighting. Because of that, I refuse to stop moving.
I want to run a half marathon one day. Maybe more. Running is something I truly enjoy, and I told my mom about it. She told me to go for it. Just like she did when I told her I wanted to go back to school. Or that I was going to publish a book. Every single time, her answer was the same: Go for it.
So that’s my mantra now. Whether I’m happy, sad, nervous, or unsure—I have to go for it. I only get one life. I don’t want to go out with regrets. The money will come and go. The friends will too. But my health and my life? That’s what matters.
I know my mom would be proud of me. I know she’s watching, probably smiling from ear to ear. And so, I’ll keep going—for her, for me, and for the life I still have to live.