Losing my mother gave me something I didn’t recognize at first—freedom.
It came wrapped in grief, confusion, and years of aching silence. But hidden beneath all of that was an unexpected truth: I now had the space to imagine a life entirely of my own making. There were no expectations to live up to, no map laid out for me to follow. Without the dreams she may have held for me—whether they were grand or simple—I was left to dream my own.
That freedom was bittersweet.
Sometimes I wonder what she would have thought of the path I’m on. Would she be proud? Would she understand my choices? I like to think, based on the little I remember, that she would have encouraged my spirit. That she would have allowed me to be wild in my curiosity, tender in my becoming. That she would have given me room to grow into whoever I wanted to be, within reason, within love.
But when she died, that freedom was stripped from me.
I was no longer the child free to explore. I had to adapt, to survive, to fit into the environments I was placed in. I learned to shape myself to make others comfortable. I dulled my edges to belong. I quieted my dreams to avoid rocking the fragile balance of wherever I was.
It took me a long time to realize:
I don’t have to do that anymore.
I don’t have to fit in where I was never meant to stay.
I don’t have to carry expectations that were never mine.
Her absence left a hole, yes, but it also left a blank canvas.
And now, I get to create what I please.
Not out of rebellion, but out of remembrance.
Out of love. Out of freedom.
Out of the truth that becoming myself is the most beautiful way I can honor her.
