Living Without my Mother in my 30's

Now that I’m in my 30s, I’ve been feeling my mother’s absence in a different way. Not louder—just deeper. It’s the quiet kind. The kind that lingers in the background of ordinary moments and taps me gently when I least expect it.

I’ve spent so many years without her, and still—there are days I feel completely undone by the ache of wanting her near. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because I’m growing into someone she never got to see.

There’s something about this stage of life that makes me crave her presence more than ever. I wish I could ask her how she felt becoming a woman. I wish she could see who I’ve become—not the girl she left behind, even though I still sometimes feel like that 15-year young girl 

I wish I could ask her some things like; did you feel this way before getting married? My grandmother told me how she was so excited about getting married and having a baby even though she told her to wait as she believes she was still so young and naive. Did you ever doubt yourself but keep going anyway?  Something that I've been doing ever since she has been gone, although I just want to hear it from her. I want to hear her story.

There’s no one else who can answer those questions. And that’s a grief all its own.

I find myself learning how to mother myself. How to hold the parts of me that still long to be held and allowing those parts to also be held by others. Some days I do it gently. Some days I just feel the weight of it all and let myself cry. Both are healing.

I don’t try to fix the grief anymore. I tried to fix the pain for a very long time; I now feel a comfort in knowing God is close to the people that mourn. God’s character consistently emerges as compassionate and merciful. I have been blessed to see his character show up in times of need and I am so grateful for them.

If you’ve lost your mother too, I just want to say, you are not alone. This grief is real, wherever you are on your journey.

And even if it softens, it still matters.

I’m still becoming. I’m still holding her. And somehow, she’s still holding me.

Rooted in love. Held by heaven 

Stephanie Milisa