On my mother's second death anniversary, here's where I'm at on my grief journey.
Not many people know that I have attended a young adult grief support group for the last year and a half. I didn’t know groups like this existed until my mother passed and I did a Google search. It seems there aren’t many grief support groups, especially for young adults. Therefore, they are not as commonly known or promoted in comparison to others, such as AA. My organization asks participants if they will return to the program each year or close their enrollment. While I was in Italy, I decided that I will not be continuing with the program.
Although I am deeply solution-oriented, there is no solution for grief. I can talk about the void that’s been left in my life and ways I attempt to cope until I’m blue in the face. Ultimately, rehashing the pain does not make me feel better. In reality, I think it’s keeping me stuck in the past as well as in a bubble of negativity when it comes to grief.
Thus far, I have let my grief consume me and define me. Rightfully so. I’ve been through all of the stages forwards and backwards and over again, but I think I’ve reached the point where I’m truly learning to live with my grief as a quiet companion instead.
Of course I thought of my mom when I was in Italy.
I thought about how she would’ve been sure to express her nerves. She’d say, “you’re pocket-sized,” meaning I’m easily kidnappable. Then I also thought about how she would have cried with me before I left for the airport.
I thought about her on the cobblestone roads, narrow and uneven sidewalks, hills and stairs, slender elevators, and low toilets. The lack of accessibility reinforced one reason why international family trips were not a possibility, particularly after her heart attack.
I wish we could’ve seen the Sistine Chapel and Trevi Fountain together. I’m sure that her looks of amazement would have reflected my own.
I thought about the fact I might not have ever gone to Italy if my mom were still alive. Later realizing, with the help of my Aunt Sharon, that it’s not a trade off, but rather handling the cards I’ve been dealt.
In Italy, my grief felt smaller and more manageable. I wasn’t sad when the Venetian Gondolier asked about my tattoo of my mother’s handwriting. I wasn’t too envious of my travel partner who was constantly calling and texting her mother during the trip.
Something I’ve learned over the past 10 months through writing my memoir and going to therapy is that two opposing things can be true at the same time regarding a person, place, or thing. This means joy can exist amidst grief. I want to be happy and I deserve to be. Happiness does not cancel out the sadness I feel for continuing to live without my mom.
I don’t want my personality to be all about healing anymore. Especially now after graduation, I’m excited to explore my hobbies, interests, and passions. To continue to learn outside of a classroom setting. To pursue endeavors that make my heart happy. To discover what makes up the core of my being.
The majority of my life has been lived in the service of others, whether for my mother, my church, university, sorority, or places of employment. Going to Italy was a first major step in living my life for myself and that is the ultimate form of liberation.
Perhaps this year my mother’s death anniversary feels more like a celebration than a pity party. 20 years was not nearly enough time together, but I'm lucky to have been able to call her mine for at least a little while.