Grief Made Me Quieter: What Losing My Mom Taught Me About Living
Some losses don't get smaller. We just learn how to carry them differently.
Losing my mother changed me.
I knew it would. How could it not?
But what I didn't expect was how much it would change the way I move through everyday life.
I became stronger. Not because I wanted to, and certainly not because I needed another life lesson.
I'd much rather have my mother.
But I also became quieter.
And that's something I've been thinking about lately.
Not quieter in the sense that I've stopped talking. Anyone who knows me can confirm that's definitely not the case.
I mean quieter about the things that hurt.
The memories that catch me off guard. The days when something feels different and I don't necessarily know why.
I've learned that not everything needs explaining.
Sometimes I just miss my mom.
And that's enough.
The Tuesday I'll Never Forget
During the last few weeks of my mother's life, I kept telling people to let her know it was okay to go.
I wasn't sure why I felt so strongly about it.
Maybe she was hanging on for something. Maybe there was something she needed to hear.
We knew there wasn't any turning things around, and when you love someone, accepting that is incredibly difficult.
You want to fix things.
Find another doctor. Try something different. Ask another question.
There must be something.
But sometimes there isn't.
And maybe telling her it was okay to go was the last thing we could give her.
There was something else happening during those final weeks.
Before Mom stopped talking, she kept asking me the same question.
"Is it Tuesday?"
I'd laugh a little and say, "Mom, every day is not Tuesday."
But she'd ask again.
And again.
I didn't think much about it at the time.
Then Tuesday came.
That morning, I was alone with my mother.
She'd stopped talking and eating. It was almost as though her body had already passed, and we were waiting for the rest of her to catch up.
I took a deep breath, put on some music, and gently kissed her forehead.
I told her there was nothing else I could do for her.
And I told her it was time to be with the angels.
Then I walked to the end of her bed.
Within moments, I watched my mother take her final breath.
On a Tuesday.
The day she'd been asking me about for weeks.
I still don't know what to make of that.
Maybe it meant something. Maybe it was simply a coincidence.
I've decided I don't need an answer.
What matters to me is that I was there.
She wasn't alone.
And I got to tell my mother it was okay to go.
The World Doesn't Stop When Yours Does
One of the strangest things about losing someone is discovering that the rest of the world carries on as though nothing has happened.
Phones ring.
People go to work.
Cars drive down the street.
Somebody somewhere is probably complaining about their coffee order.
And you're standing there thinking:
My mother just died. How is everything still happening?
But it does.
There are arrangements to make, people to call, decisions to make, and questions to answer.
Somehow, you function.
You might even laugh.
Then something completely ordinary catches you off guard.
A song.
A photograph.
Something funny happens, and you instinctively think, I have to tell Mom.
For half a second, you've forgotten.
Then you remember.
You can't.
And sometimes that tiny moment hurts more than the big ones.
The Grief Nobody Sees
In the beginning, grief is very public.
People call. They send flowers. They bring food. They ask how you're doing.
Everyone is trying to find the right words, even though there really aren't any.
Eventually, the flowers die.
The phone gets quieter.
People return to their lives.
And you begin figuring out what yours looks like now.
That's when grief changes.
There's the grief everyone sees, and then there's the grief you live with after everyone stops asking.
I think that second kind is the one that changes us the most.
Birthdays happen.
Holidays come around.
Another year passes.
Life keeps accumulating without the person you lost.
And you slowly get used to their absence.
Not because you wanted to.
Because you have to.
Stronger Wasn't Something I Asked For
People often talk about how difficult experiences make us stronger.
I understand what they mean.
But I have mixed feelings about that idea.
I didn't need my mother's death to teach me strength.
I would rather have her here.
Period.
Still, I can't deny that losing her changed what I know about myself.
I've survived days I couldn't imagine getting through.
I've learned that I can be heartbroken and still function.
I can fall apart and eventually put myself back together.
Not exactly the same, of course.
And maybe that's something we misunderstand about strength.
Being strong doesn't mean something stopped hurting.
It means you found a way to keep living even though it did.
I don't consider myself stronger because I've gotten over losing my mother.
I haven't.
I'm stronger because I've learned how to live with the loss.
And honestly, I think there's a difference.
Why Grief Made Me Quieter
This is probably the biggest change I've noticed in myself.
I don't always feel the need to talk about my grief anymore.
If I'm having a difficult day, I don't necessarily announce it.
When an anniversary comes around, I don't need everyone to remember.
Sometimes I don't even cry.
I just have a moment.
Maybe I hear a song or remember something funny she said.
Perhaps I wonder what she'd think about something I'm doing.
Would she laugh?
Would she be proud?
Would she think I'd completely lost my mind?
Probably occasionally.
And for a little while, I miss her.
Then I carry on with my day.
It's not that I love her less.
It's that I've become comfortable keeping some of those moments to myself.
They belong to me.
And that's okay.
You Can Be Happy and Still Miss Someone
Something else I've learned is that grief and happiness aren't opposites.
I can miss my mother terribly and still have a wonderful day.
I can laugh until my stomach hurts.
Travel somewhere beautiful.
Spend time with people I love.
Get excited about a new project.
Make plans.
Dream about what comes next.
None of those things mean I've forgotten her.
For a while, I think there's almost a sense of guilt around feeling happy again.
How can you be enjoying life when someone you love is gone?
But what's the alternative?
Am I supposed to stop living because she did?
Would being miserable somehow prove how much I loved her?
Of course not.
My mother wouldn't want that for me.
And I certainly don't want that for myself.
I've come to realize that grief and joy can occupy the same life.
Sometimes even the same moment.
You can be having the time of your life and suddenly wish someone were there to share it.
Both feelings are real.
Neither cancels out the other.
I Haven't Moved On. I've Moved Forward.
I've never particularly liked the expression "moving on."
It sounds like you're supposed to leave someone behind.
I haven't moved on from my mother.
I've moved forward with losing her.
She's still part of who I am.
Her life shaped mine, and her death did, too.
There are pieces of her in the way I think, the things I remember, the stories I tell, and probably a few habits I wish I hadn't inherited.
She's still here in those ways.
Just differently.
And I don't need to choose between honoring her memory and loving the life I have.
This Is My Normal Now
Sometimes I think about that Tuesday.
I remember putting on the music.
Kissing her forehead.
Telling her there was nothing else I could do.
Standing at the end of her bed.
Watching her take her final breath.
I still wonder why she'd been asking about Tuesday.
I probably always will.
But I've made peace with not knowing.
There are things in life we simply don't get answers to.
And maybe that's another way grief has changed me.
I don't need to understand everything anymore.
I don't need to explain every feeling or make every painful experience mean something.
Sometimes life is just heartbreaking.
Sometimes it's wonderful.
And sometimes it's both on the very same day.
My mother isn't behind me.
She's part of me.
Losing her made me stronger in ways I never asked to become strong.
And strangely, it made me quieter.
There's still sadness here.
But there's also laughter, love, curiosity, plans, and a whole lot of life left to live.
I don't think healing means forgetting.
And I certainly don't think it means you stop missing someone.
Maybe healing is simply reaching a place where you can remember them, miss them, and still genuinely enjoy being alive.
You don't have to stop missing someone to start living again.
And every once in a while, when the world gets quiet, I think about my mom.
Especially on Tuesdays.
Episode 18: Grief Made Me Quieter — The Amber Dea Lux Show
In this deeply personal episode, I share more about my mother's final moments, the unexpected ways grief has changed me, and what I've learned about finding happiness while still missing someone I love.
Listen to Episode 18 on The Amber Dea Lux Show.
With love,
Ms. Amber O. 💋
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