Mourning Mom Quotes

Trauma isn’t just the sadness that comes from being beaten, or neglected, or insulted. That’s just one layer of it. Trauma also is mourning the childhood you could have had. The childhood other kids around you had. The fact that you could have had a mom who hugged and kissed you when you skinned your knee. Or a dad who stayed and brought you a bouquet of flowers at your graduation. Trauma is mourning the fact that, as an adult, you have to parent yourself. You have to stand in your kitchen, starving, near tears, next to a burnt chicken, and you can’t call your mom to tell her about it, to listen to her tell you that it’s okay, to ask if you can come over for some of her cooking. Instead, you have to pull up your bootstraps and solve the painful puzzle of your life by yourself. What other choice do you have? Nobody else is going to solve it for you.

Yadriel'd once asked his mom why they didn't just take all of someone's pain when they were sad. She had explained it was important to let people feel grief and mourn the loss of a loved one.

Grief was the final way we had to tell our loved ones that they’d impacted our lives. That we missed them so, so much. And there was nothing wrong with me mourning my mom for the rest of mine, even as I carried her love and her life in my heart. I had to live, but I could also remember along the way.

If I’m being honest, there’s a lot of anger. I’m angry at this old Korean woman I don’t know, that she gets to live and my mother does not, like somehow this stranger’s survival is at all related to my loss. Why is she here slurping up spicy jjamppong noodles and my mom isn’t? Other people must feel this way. Life is unfair, and sometimes it helps to irrationally blame someone for it.

Trauma isn’t just the sadness that comes from being beaten, or neglected, or insulted. That’s just one layer of it. Trauma also is mourning the childhood you could have had. The childhood other kids around you had. The fact that you could have had a mom who hugged and kissed you when you skinned your knee. Or a dad who stayed and brought you a bouquet of flowers at your graduation. Trauma is mourning the fact that, as an adult, you have to parent yourself.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, you should never tell a mourning mother that it was "God's plan." For some people, that can be worse than saying nothing at all. For a non-believer, the words that are meant to console a religious person can do quite the opposite.

I realized then that for all of us part of the process of mom's dying was mourning, not just her death, but also the death of our dreams of things to come. You don't really lose the person who has been.

My mom was there, in some form, in some sense, in some universe. My mom was still my mom, even if she only lived in books and door locks and the smell of fried tomatoes and old paper. She lived.

There was a time—the year after leaving, even five years after when this homely street, with its old-fashioned high crown, its sidewalk blocks tugged up and down by maple roots, its retaining walls of sandstone and railings of painted iron and two-family brickfront houses whose siding imitates gray rocks, excited Rabbit with the magic of his own existence. These mundane surfaces had given witness to his life; this cup had held his blood; here the universe had centered, each downtwirling maple seed of more account than galaxies. No more. Jackson Road seems an ordinary street anywhere. Millions of such American streets hold millions of lives, and let them sift through, and neither notice nor mourn, and fall into decay, and do not even mourn their own passing but instead grimace at the wrecking ball with the same gaunt facades that have outweathered all their winters. However steadily Mom communes with these maples—the branches’ misty snake-shapes as inflexibly fixed in these two windows as the leading of stained glass—they will not hold back her fate by the space of a breath; nor, if they are cut down tomorrow to widen Jackson Road at last, will her staring, that planted them within herself, halt their vanishing. And the wash of new light will extinguish even her memory of them. Time is our element, not a mistaken invader. How stupid, it has taken him thirty-six years to begin to believe that.

And soon a cold realization hit me: The time for giving up hope and 
letting go was now. It would be my parting gift to her. And as I cried 
into Mom’s ear and held her hand, and told her it was okay to let go, that I’d be fine, I felt her chest rise one last time. There was no long 
continuous beep like you see in the movies. Just a deafening silence 
and my echo of good-bye skipping down the side of her ear like a coin 
down a deep well.

I met a great woman tonight whose mom just died. I was saying to her that after my dad died, I cried so much. I cried pretty much every day for six months, and I mean really crying. What I was mourning was the loss of a very specific feeling. Our relationship was so simple. Totally pure. Effortless. There was no tension, nothing unsaid, nothing I would have wanted more or less of. And I know my brothers felt exactly the same way. He wasn’t just my person, he was theirs too. So, maybe three months after he died, I was driving and I started crying again and I thought, This is incredible. An eighty-five-year-old man died, and here I am, fifty years old, with a full life, and I am crying so hard I have to pull over and blow my nose. I wasn’t ashamed, I was astonished that people could ever love each other that much. It’s fucking amazing. If my kid is crying that hard when she’s fifty years old because we meant that much to each other? I would say that level of connection is pretty much the complete realization of our potential as human beings.

We drove through a few more neighborhoods after that, searching for the lost truck, listening to a CD of old Khmer songs, the same CD that had been stuck in the stereo since the Honda had belonged to mom. I barely understood the lyrics, aside from a few phrases in the choruses, but I knew the melodies, the voices, the weird mix of mournful, psychedelic tones. When I tried articulating my feelings about home, my mind inevitably returned to these songs, the way the incomprehensible intertwined with what made me feel so comfortable. I’d lived with misunderstanding for so long, I’d stopped even viewing it as bad. It was just there, embedded in everything I loved.

It is so hard to think ‘was’ about your mom.

Something had gone horribly wrong at my birth, so my father would never have his little soldier, Mom would never have her home filled with tiny scampering joy, and we each clutched our guilt very privately.

Decades after little Colleen’s death, my sister Kathy still loves her daughter dearly. Colleen was born with cerebral palsy. She died in Kath’s arms in a rocking chair at the age of six. They were listening to a music box that looked very much like a smiling pink bunny. The opening quote in this book, “I will love you forever, but I’ll only miss you for the rest of my life,” is from Kath’s nightly prayers to her child. Colleen couldn’t really talk or walk very well, but loved untying my mother’s tennis shoes and then laughing. When Mom died decades later we sent her off in tennis shoes so Colleen would have something to untie in Heaven. In the meantime, Dad had probably been taking really good care of her up there. He must have been aching to hug her for all of her six years on earth. Mom’s spirit comes back to play with great grandchildren she’d never met or had a chance to love while she was still – I almost said “among the living.” In my family, though, the dead don’t always stay that way. You can be among the living without technically being alive. Mom comes back to play, but Dad shows up only in emergencies. They are both watching over their loved ones. “The Mourning After” is dedicated to all those we have had the joy of loving before they’ve slipped away to the other side. It then celebrates the joy of re-unions.

Grief requires imagination: mental images of the one you've lost, of the world that would have been... On the night Mom was killed, I was halted: imagination became a dangerous place, full of darkness and terror. Creativity would have taken energy I needed to survive. And so I could not write, and I could not remember, and I could hardly mourn, only fear.

after trying so relentlessly to recover that lost version of myself that I couldn’t stop mourning, I finally found a stopping place—and settled out at a mom size. Not a high-school-girl size, not a college-girl size, but a mature, woman’s, now-I-really-get-it size. I got stronger, and maybe trimmer, but I never actually returned—as I confess I’d been hoping—to my pre-mom self. Which made sense. Because I was not that self anymore, and I was no longer even close to that self. In the end, that was a good thing.

But still, I was mourning those years lost to doctor visits and shed hair and Mom, the do-er, lying sick on the couch.

It was the only picture of Mama and me where she looked semi-normal; none of the cheap wigs or bejeweled bell bottoms and platforms that made every other photo look like I was taking a picture with a Vegas showgirl. I had begged her to dress like all the other moms, so she went with “Priscilla Presley in mourning,” which involved black from head to toe.

...dim light bled through the threadbare curtains she recognized in the window, the ones with patterns of fish Mom had found at a garage sale with Joy a million years ago. Or yesterday. Time was a mystery and a lie since Mom had died.

I realized then that for all of us, part of the process of Mom’s dying was mourning not just her death but also the death of our dreams of things to come.

Grief was the final way we had to tell our loved ones that they’d impacted our lives. That we missed them so, so much. And there was nothing wrong with me mourning my mom for the rest of mine, even as I carried her love and her life in my heart. I had to live, but I could also remember along the way. The people we lose take a part of us with them . . . but they leave a part of themselves with us too.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I finally allow myself to mourn my Momma. It hurts so much more than anything I have endured. I would rather take a lifetime of beatings and be trapped with those monsters than have to deal with this soul-wrenching heartbreak. I just wanted to hug my mom. I wanted to hear her laugh and cuddle me on the couch during a Netflix marathon. She is- was my soul mate. We always talked about the past lives we must have lived together and where our next life might take us. We would always be together. Any reincarnation would bring us to each other.

Trauma is mourning the fact that, as an adult, you have to parent yourself. You have to stand in your kitchen, starving, near tears, next to a burnt chicken, and you can’t call your mom to tell her about it, to listen to her tell you that it’s okay, to ask if you can come over for some of her cooking. Instead, you have to pull up your bootstraps and solve the painful puzzle of your life by yourself. What other choice do you have? Nobody else is going to solve it for you. That sadness—the sadness of loss—is a different flavor than the sadness of reckoning. The sadness of reckoning feels visceral and angry and tinged with violence. It feels healable, somehow, with revenge or justice. But the sadness of a lost childhood feels like yearning, impossible desire. It feels like a hollow, insatiable hunger.

it also comes with sadness. Because expressing the kindness to yourself that you deserve often reminds you of the kindness you didn’t get. Trauma isn’t just the sadness that comes from being beaten, or neglected, or insulted. That’s just one layer of it. Trauma also is mourning the childhood you could have had. The childhood other kids around you had. The fact that you could have had a mom who hugged and kissed you when you skinned your knee. Or a dad who stayed and brought you a bouquet of flowers at your graduation. Trauma is mourning the fact that, as an adult, you have to parent yourself. You have to stand in your kitchen, starving, near tears, next to a burnt chicken, and you can’t call your mom to tell her about it,

I know you think you can’t, but you can move on in that area of your life too. In fact, you should. Chase wouldn’t want you to raise the baby and live your life alone.” “I won’t be alone,” I countered, “I’ll have you guys.” “You will have us, always, but don’t shut love out of your life. Chase would want you to have a husband, he would want the baby to have a father.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “But isn’t this too soon? I’m so confused, it’s like when I was fighting my feelings for Chase when I was dating Brandon, only now I feel like I’m acting as if Chase didn’t matter to me by even considering anything with Brandon.” “For a lot of people, two months is too soon. But your situation is entirely different because of what happened between the three of you before. So that doesn’t exactly apply to you and Brandon now. If you’re worried about us Harper, don’t. We all want for you to be happy, and we agree Brandon makes you happy. We wouldn’t have called him to help you out of your mourning if we were afraid you would eventually go back to him. “If you want to do this on your own, then you should. But, if you want to be with him, don’t miss your chance with him again. He’s good for you, and though he has every right to be bitter about your baby, he already loves him more than we could ever hope a man in your life would.” She paused for a minute and leaned back in her chair, “I know what Chase thought of him, and I promise he would be happy with your choice. He knew Brandon could take care of, and love you, better than anyone. That’s why he didn’t interfere with your relationship for so long.” We sat in silence a few minutes while I let that sink in. It’s like she knew exactly what I needed to hear, to know the family wouldn’t judge me, and most importantly, for someone to tell me Chase would want me to be happy and move on too. Claire leaned over and hugged me tight before speaking again, “I think the real question is, how did you feel after you kissed him?” “Like I could finally breathe again.” I answered honestly. “I still love him Mom.” “I know you do, sweetie.” “Is

When we shut the book, Brandon turned to me and ran his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping the tears away and pressed a soft kiss to each cheek. He stood up and walked to the other side of the room, pulling Mom out of her chair, he wrapped his big arms around her and thanked her while she cried. This was one of the many reasons why I loved him. Beyond the tough guy exterior, was the most gentle and caring heart. What Chase and I had done had ultimately crushed Brandon. He had quietly stepped aside when he found out instead of taking it out on either of us. He had been there for me when I thought Chase broke my heart, and had helped me out of my catatonic mourning period when he died. He loved me and my baby, despite the mistakes I had made, and was now holding and thanking Chase’s mother for a book to help us tell Liam stories of “how great his dad was”, as Brandon had put it that day.

And so here we are, on the eve of the New Year, a year that will be all about saying good-bye to the old way of doing things and hello to our new stage of life. A year in which I need to accept that the traditions that revolved around my children can evolve and yet still be meaningful and intimate. And isn't that what it's all about, really? When your kids move away, you mourn the loss of those traditions and the intimacy of your family unit. The world you created for them, took pride and comfort in, has ended.

Grief was the final way we had to tell our loved ones that they’d impacted our lives. That we missed them so, so much. And there was nothing wrong with me mourning my mom for the rest of mine, even as I carried her love and her life in my heart.

I thought, not for the first time, that maybe it would have been better if he’d just died, a thunderclap heart attack, an artery bursting in his brain, a peaceful exit in the middle of the night, in his own bed, after his favorite meal, with my mom beside him. We’d have mourned, then moved on. This was a slow-motion catastrophe, death by a thousand cuts.

I was clearing some plates off a table when I heard the familiar strum of guitar chords. My heart clenched painfully as I slowly made my way to the kitchen. Tonight was another open-mic night, and while I enjoyed having live music playing throughout the bar and dining room, I didn’t usually pay that much attention to it. But there was no way to miss this song. The deep, husky voice began crooning through the speakers as I came back out of the kitchen empty-handed. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew that voice as I made my way to a spot where I could see the stage. I rubbed a hand over my aching chest and stopped suddenly when I saw Kash sitting on the stool in front of the mic with a guitar in his hands. What was he doing? Since when did he play guitar and sing? And why this song? His eyes searched the dining area and landed on me just as he began the first chorus of “I’ll Be.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes and my entire body warmed under his intense stare as he continued through words that meant more to me than he could have known. Not once did he take his eyes from me, and my mind and heart fought over my conflicting feelings. Part of me wanted to yell that he was the guy I’d been waiting for. That I was in love with him and was done being only his friend. The other part wanted to know why he was torturing me with this song. With everything else that had happened tonight and the fourth anniversary of my parents’ death less than two months away, I wanted to run away from there, to curl in a ball and mourn what I had lost and would never have. I couldn’t call my mom and tell her I’d met a guy whose presence alone made me dizzy. Who sang to me the same song Dad had always sung to her. I couldn’t tell my parents that no matter how hard I fought my feelings and pushed Kash away, I knew I’d met the man I wanted to marry. The haunting words drifted to an end, and soon the chords did too. When Kash was finished, he put the guitar on the stand and began walking in my direction. Throughout all of this, his eyes still hadn’t left mine. Before he could reach me, the bitter side of me won out and I turned on my heel and rushed back to my customers. I kept myself busy for the rest of the hour and whenever I had to go over to the bar, I made sure to go to Bryce’s side so I wouldn’t have to face Kash again. I knew I was being ridiculous, but if it had been any song other than that one, if it had been on a night that wasn’t wearing me completely down, I may have been brave enough to finally fight for what I wanted. But right now all I could think of was finishing out this shift at work and staying far from Logan Hendricks. Somehow, he knew how to get to me. And somehow, I knew that our being together was right. But especially after that morning, everything about him—and us together—scared me. And I wasn’t sure I could handle that right now. People say that being in love is amazing. They lie. It’s freaking terrifying.  

As an adult, I’ve grieved not having had my dad around to call me princess, to tell me how beautiful I was and to threaten the boys I dated. I’ve mourned the loss of not having a dad I could curl up and feel secure with. A dad who would teach me how to be a self-respecting woman. A dad who would remind me that I was valued and worth more than perhaps I believed I was.

I realized then that for all of us, part of the process of Mom’s dying was mourning not just her death but also the death of our dreams of things to come. You don’t really lose the person who has been; you have all those memories.

You’re selfish,” I spat. “You ruined my grieving chart. You distracted us from Mom’s death with your stupid sleepwalking, and now we’re going to be in mourning forever.” I pulled her hair harder.

People never suspected that she was mourning the loss of a child she’d never have, a loss that felt as great as the canyon in her heart that was formed when her mom died.