There are some kinds of silence that are louder than noise. The silence after your mother is gone is one of them. It settles into your chest, into your days, into the smallest moments when you least expect it. It shows up when the world slows down, when the holidays arrive, when laughter feels incomplete. And no matter how much time passes, that silence never truly leaves—it just learns how to sit beside you.
I miss my mother’s voice.
Not just the sound of it, but the way it made everything feel okay. The way it could calm storms inside me without even trying. Her voice carried comfort, reassurance, and love all at once. It didn’t matter what kind of day I was having—one call from her could soften everything. Now, I close my eyes and try to remember it. Sometimes I can almost hear her say my name, and for a moment, my heart forgets that she’s gone.
I miss her laugh.
That laugh had a life of its own. It was warm, familiar, and full of joy—the kind of laugh that made you smile even if you didn’t know the joke. It filled rooms and made memories brighter. Now, when something funny happens, my first instinct is still to think, Mom would love this. And then the ache hits. Because the laughter I want to hear most is the one I can’t.
I miss her calling just to check in.
Those calls that seemed so ordinary at the time now feel priceless. “Did you eat?” “Are you okay?” “I was just thinking about you.” She didn’t need a reason to call—love was reason enough. I didn’t realize how much those small moments held me together until they were gone. Now my phone stays silent in a way it never did before, and I would give anything to see her name light up the screen one more time.
I miss her presence during the holidays.
Holidays are supposed to be joyful, but without her, they feel different—heavier. The decorations feel quieter. The food tastes nostalgic but incomplete. There’s a space at the table that no one else can fill. She was the heart of those moments, the one who brought everyone together. Without her, the holidays remind me not only of what we had, but of what we lost.
Grief is strange.
It doesn’t move in a straight line. Some days, I feel strong. I smile, I function, I move forward. And then there are days when a simple memory—a smell, a song, a photo—brings everything crashing back. The pain is sharp and sudden, like losing her all over again. Loving someone so deeply means missing them in ways words can never fully explain.
People say time heals, but that isn’t entirely true.
Time doesn’t heal the loss of a mother—it teaches you how to carry it. The love never fades, and neither does the longing. You just learn how to live with the ache. And maybe that’s okay. Because that ache is proof of how deeply she was loved, how much she mattered, how big her place in my life still is.
I talk to her sometimes.
In my thoughts, in my prayers, in quiet moments when the world feels too heavy. I tell her about my days, my worries, my small victories. I imagine her listening, smiling, guiding me the way she always did. And somehow, that brings comfort. Because even though she isn’t here physically, her love still surrounds me.
She taught me more than she ever knew.
She taught me kindness, strength, patience, and unconditional love. She taught me how to care deeply, how to show up for others, how to keep going even when things are hard. I carry her lessons with me every day. In that way, she never truly left—she lives on in who I am.
There are moments when the pain feels unbearable.
Moments when I just want to hear her say everything will be okay. Moments when I feel like a part of me is missing—and it always will be. But alongside the pain, there is gratitude. Gratitude for having had a mother worth missing this much. Gratitude for the love we shared. Gratitude for every memory that still warms my heart even as it breaks it.
Love like that doesn’t end.
It doesn’t disappear with time or distance or death. It stays. It transforms. It becomes memories, whispers, and quiet strength. It becomes the reason I keep going, even on the days when missing her hurts the most.
So this is for you, Mom.
For your voice, your laugh, your love. For every call, every holiday, every moment you made brighter just by being there. I miss you more than words can say. I love you more than ever. And no matter how much time passes, you will always be a part of me.
Love and miss you, Mom—so, so much. 💔
