HONORING MY MOM’S TRANSITION: A JOURNEY FROM GRIEF TO GRATITUDE AND PRESENCE

This has been a very active month—my calendar has been filled with so many opportunities for celebration. But something I’ve discovered on my journey is that celebration isn’t something reserved only for the highs—we can also honor and celebrate the lows. Those moments of dense emotions, when our hearts feel heavy, yet strangely expansive.

Today marks another year since my mom transitioned from this human form into the spiritual energy that now surrounds me, guides me, and protects me in ways I never fully understood before her passing. Mom is no longer a physical place I run to, but a loving space that lives within me. I don’t quite know how to fully articulate this feeling, but I imagine this is what it means to truly grasp the spirit of someone’s transition—the shift from presence to essence. It’s a dual experience: joy and sorrow, fullness and void. It’s the space where the memory of who she was and the reality of what she now is gently dance together in both my heart and my mind.

There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t feel the ache of her physical absence. Grief, as I’ve learned, isn’t something you "get over"—it’s something you learn to carry, to lean into, to live with, to grow around, to sit in, and to allow yourself to be held by. In the beginning, the grief was almost unbearable—nearly too heavy to hold. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it. And to be fully honest, even with all the work I had done on myself up to that point, I was still ill-prepared to carry it. But in the midst of that heaviness, I’ve also uncovered something deeply beautiful: presence. Not just the presence I discovered within myself, but the presence of my mom—alive in memory, in spirit, and now, within me.

Her presence may no longer be in phone calls, warm hugs, or everyday conversations—or in those moments I miss the most, when I could just be me: unguarded, un-adult, and completely silly. I loved making my mom laugh—her loud, high-pitched, distinct laugh that echoed and filled any room she was in. I used to joke and say that if we ever lost Mom, we’d just have to get quiet and follow that laugh. I can confidently say laughter was our love language. Humor was definitely the main frequency we communicated on. But though the laughter is gone, the love isn’t. It’s now in sunrises that feel like soft reminders. It’s in the random songs that play at just the right moment. It’s in the calm I feel when I’m unsure, and the quiet strength I tap into when I need courage. She may be gone from this world, but she’s never left me.

I’ve worked really hard to lovingly shift my perspective—not to bypass the pain, but to make space for gratitude alongside it. Gratitude for the time we did have. For all those moments of joy. For the lessons she instilled. For the love and laughter that continue to echo. I look for the positive pieces in this heartbreaking experience not because the loss isn’t real, but because love like hers deserves to be honored in light, not only in sorrow.

I celebrate my mom today—not because she was perfect, not because she fully understood me, not because she didn’t have flaws or make mistakes—but because she was my mom, and without a doubt, she tried her best to love me in the only way she knew how. I no longer look at the mistakes she made and take them personally. I now view them the same way I view my own—she did her best with the skills and tools she had. And though there were many moments when I questioned whether she truly understood me, one thing I never, ever had to question was her love. Today, I remember her not with a heavy heart, but with an open one—one that’s learning, healing, and still being shaped by the experience of who she was and who she continues to be.

Thank you for everything, Momma. I will never stop loving you. I will never stop growing into the man you endlessly prayed for me to become. You loved me through my darkest moments. You were angry and disappointed at times, but you never labeled me as unlovable—even when that was the label I gave myself. In all the times I pushed you away, you held me tighter and reminded me that I don’t have to fight alone. In all the moments I tried, fell, and gave up, you spoke words that gave me the strength to get back up and keep going. And Momma, I just have to say this here—like I do every day when we speak—you no longer have to worry about me. You continue to remind me to fight for what I love, to lean into who I was made to be, to love God, and to let Him love me. I’m happy, I’m doing well, and I love you in so many new ways that somehow make me feel closer to you than I ever was before. So I honor you today, and every day, by showing up as a strong man who lives his life in a way that his light fills the room—just as your heart and laughter always did.

Your son,

Daniel