What I learnt after the death of my Mum

As I turned on the engine of my car last Friday, Jess Glynne’s “Don’t be so hard on yourself” blasted through the speakers. I found myself simultaneously laughing and crying at the words as memories of a much-treasured past raced around in my mind. Sometimes even the smallest of things, like a song or a saying, can open a whole book of memories you didn’t even realise you had, and that’s when it hits you the hardest.

My Mum died in the build up to last Christmas, right before my twentieth birthday. I recall the streets decorated with Christmas lights, Christmas songs hummed by those in the festive spirit and presents carefully placed under the tree. Christmas was everywhere. My Mum loved everything about Christmas, she taught me to love all things festive and to cherish the important time spent with loved ones, but I just wanted it to all go away. I could feel my heart breaking every time I switched the channel over to see one of her favourite festive films, there couldn’t have been a worse time to lose her

I can still pinpoint that very moment I heard the news. My world stopped. I could see everyone around me moving but I was frozen still. Drowning in unspoken words and fears for what a future without her might entail. I can still remember every second and I don’t think I will be able to ever forget.

Fast forward one year and my reality has never felt as never felt so different. Despite my whole life being shattered to pieces, I now see the world from a whole different perspective and appreciate the value of every single day. The challenges you face in the year of loosing a parent are enough to prepare you for any potential obstacles you may encounter throughout your life. But I have survived, and I have learned to love the person I have become.

Before my Mum died, a new level of friendship blossomed between us. After recently transitioning out of my antagonistic teenage phrase, we became closer and treasured the time we spent together. We would hit the shops together or go out for dinner and laugh until we cried, we had an unbreakable Mother-Daughter bond. Then suddenly I was alone, forced into learning about things I was too young to learn. I was supposed to be in the prime of my adult years, but instead I became a person defined as “the girl whose Mum died”. I had to become totally independent and live a life without my Mum by my side.

The terrifying thing about grief is how easy it is to go about your daily life while it quietly tears you apart. In the months after my Mum’s death, I was awarded “Student of the Year” at University, my boyfriend became my fiancé and I attended parties with a smile plastered across my face but hiding what was really going on inside. Through the laughs and conversations, I was barely present. Consumed with grief and thoughts of my Mother overriding each special milestone. We don’t talk about our grief enough. We’re expected to start healing our broken hearts the day after a funeral, however, the same pain exists for many years after. I have learnt that it is important to talk about our grief to keep the memory of the person we have lost alive.

It is the smallest things that affected me the most. Like getting mail addressed to my Mum, people calling up the house phone asking to speak to her and photos from the past reminding me of everything I once had. I would read and re-read old text messages to make her feel alive again, tricking myself into believing I could call her up and ask her how her day had been. Revisiting that deep trauma would allow me to remember the smallest of details, like the sound of her voice and her laugh, things which I had worked so hard to try not to forget. Eventually I came to the realisation that, mourning for someone can sometimes be good because, in an everlasting state of grief, you never truly forget the impact they had on your life.

During the first few months, I learned to appreciate the difference in how people grieve. At first, I would get incredibly angry at those who failed to show any emotion towards the loss of my Mum and this was extremely difficult to overcome. However, I found acceptance in the realisation that although they some suffering from quiet stoicism, their pain was just as prominent as my own. I found strength in my new-found belief of spirituality. After losing faith in religion, I delved deeply into the world of spirituality where I found a connection to crystals, numerology and metaphysical health. I desperately craved some justification for why my Mum was taken away and found that spirituality provided me with this answer. I redefined my own morals and beliefs and this has also lead to the discovering of a new meaning to life.

The thing about grief is that the adage is true: Time heals almost everything. Sometimes when I catch myself laughing or smiling I feel great guilt that my pain is slowly fading. In some ways, I’m losing my Mum all over again. I find myself frustrated as my memories are beginning to blur, I’m forgetting the sound of her voice, her laugh and mannerisms. Some days I have to really search my memory to picture her face and how it felt to hug her when I broke down in tears. The realisation that she is really gone is only now beginning to hit me. It pains me to remember that she won’t be there when I graduate from University, I won’t get to see her face as I walk down the aisle on my wedding day and she won’t ever get to meet any children I have in the future. It breaks my heart I am living a life without her in it.

Although I know that my Mum is no longer living, I know that she is still here. She talks through me when I am comforting my sister as she cries about missing the times we share. She is there in the advice I give and values I hold. She is there when I am laughing and when I’m crying. She is there when I hear Jess Glynne’s songs on the radio. I realise now that I no longer need to rely on my grief just to keep the memory of my Mum alive. Even though I am not able to see her, I am finding my Mum in myself.

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