Three years today.
Three years since I said goodbye to my Mom.
It’s funny how time works. People often say it gets easier, and in some ways it does. The sharp edges soften. You learn how to keep moving forward. You smile more than you cry. But the missing… the missing never really leaves.
There are still moments when something wonderful happens, and my first thought is, “I need to call Mom.” There are days when I have a question only she would know the answer to. There are quiet afternoons when I simply wish I could sit beside her with a cup of tea and talk about nothing in particular. Not because I need advice. Just because she was home.
As children, we rarely realize that our parents quietly become our safe place. They celebrate our victories as if they were their own. They steady us during life’s storms. They remind us who we are when we’ve forgotten. Then one day, without warning, we have to learn how to carry that steadiness ourselves.
I think about my Mom often, every day. She had a life well lived – 91 years. I miss her laugh. I miss hearing her voice. I miss knowing that no matter what happened in my day, she was only a phone call away. Today marks three years since she left this world, but not one day has passed that she has left my heart.
The beautiful thing about love is that it refuses to end where life does. It changes. It becomes memories that suddenly appear while driving down the road. It becomes recipes made exactly the way she taught you. It becomes little habits you catch yourself doing and realize, “That’s Mom.” It becomes gratitude.
I was blessed.
I was blessed to call her my Mom.
She loved deeply, encouraged generously, and quietly taught me what grace looked like long before I understood the lesson. Looking back now, I realize so much of who I am—and so much of Deliberate Desires—was first planted in me by her.
If you’ve ever found comfort in something I’ve written, or encouragement when you needed it most, I hope you know that a little piece of that began with her.
So today, instead of only mourning what I’ve lost, I’m choosing to celebrate what I was given: the privilege of being her daughter, the memories that no one can ever take away, and the love that even death could never erase.
If you’ve lost someone you love, I hope today you give yourself permission to remember them—not only with tears, but with gratitude. Because those we love never truly disappear. They live on in us.
Today, Mom…
It’s been three years.
There are still days I reach for the phone before I remember.
There are still moments I wish I could hear you say, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I hope somehow you know how grateful I am that God chose you to be my Mom.
Thank you for every hug, every lesson, every sacrifice, every prayer, and every ounce of love you poured into my life.
I hope I’m living in a way that would make you smile.
Until we meet again…
I love you.
Always your daughter.
In loving memory of my Mom.
Deliberate Desires 