The Month of August
I haven’t written here in a long time.
Actually, that’s probably an understatement.
It’s been a few years since I’ve sat down and put my thoughts, my heart, and my individual journey out here for anyone else to read.
I’ve thought about it. A lot.
I’ve opened this space in my head more times than I can count, wondering what I would say if I started writing again.
And then today came.
National Grief Awareness Day.
And somehow, that felt like the reason to come back.
Because grief is still a part of my life, part of my journey.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to completely walk away from this space. This blog was created because I believe our individual journeys are often traveled on a shared path. We experience things differently, but somewhere out there is someone walking through something that feels a lot like what we’re walking through.
So here I am again.
Writing.
And it seems fitting that my first post in years would be about the messiness of grief.
Because August is hard.
August is my birthday month.
You’d think after seven years I would have figured out how to navigate it. And in some ways, I have.
But in other ways…I haven’t.
I have a complicated relationship with my birthday now.
Part of me wants to celebrate. I am grateful to be here. Grateful for another year. Grateful for the people I love and the life I’ve been given.
But there is another part of me that would really just like to skip over August.
And I don’t want to wish time away.
That’s the strange thing about grief.
You can simultaneously want to hold onto every moment of your life and wish you could fast-forward through certain days.
Grief, it’s messy!
I actually removed my birthday from social media a number of years ago.
I don’t want to be bombarded with birthday wishes from people I barely know or haven’t spoken to in years, even those I love and that love me.
Not because I don’t appreciate the sentiment.
Because they make me sad.
Because every birthday wish is a reminder that the woman who brought me into this world isn’t here to wish me a happy birthday anymore.
And that hurts.
I miss having my mom present around my birthday.
Not necessarily some big celebration.
Just her.
The text.
The conversation.
The way she made me feel special like no one else could.
I was her firstborn.
Her baby girl.
And there was something else about my birthday that made it special to me.
I used to give her flowers on my birthday.
Because, after all, it was her BIRTHING day. 😂
She was the one who did all the hard work!
My birthday was a celebration of the day I was born, but it was also the day she became a mom for the first time.
And I loved recognizing that.
I loved giving her flowers and reminding her that this day belonged to her, too.
I wonder if I ever told her how much that meant to me.
I hope I did.
Even well into my 40s, she called me her baby girl.
And if I’m being completely honest, there were times when it annoyed me.
I was a grown woman, for God’s sake! 😂
Sometimes her love could feel a little…overbearing.
I didn’t always understand it.
I do now.
Because I have a son who is now an adult.
And somewhere along the way, I’ve realized that you don’t stop being a mom just because your child grows up.
You don’t stop seeing the little boy or girl you held in your arms.
You don’t stop worrying.
You don’t stop wanting to make sure they’re okay.
You don’t stop loving them with that crazy, sometimes overwhelming, can’t-quite-explain-it kind of love.
I understand my mom a little more now.
And damn…
I miss her calling me her baby girl.
I miss the flowers.
I miss the text.
I miss the conversation.
I miss her voice.
I miss simply having her here.
And maybe that’s what makes birthdays so hard now.
It’s not really about getting older.
It’s about getting older without her.
My mom died in May of 2019.
May has its own weight because that’s when I lost her.
But August carries something different.
August reminds me that another year has passed.
Another birthday.
Another year she isn’t here physically.
And the more time that passes, the more I miss hearing her.
I used to think grief would get easier with time.
Maybe it does in some ways.
The sharpness isn’t always there.
You learn how to carry it.
You learn how to live around the hole.
You laugh again.
You celebrate again.
You have really good days.
You have really bad days.
And then, sometimes, something catches you completely off guard.
A song.
A memory.
A phrase.
A birthday.
And there it is.
Grief.
Not gone.
Just different.
I think one of the hardest things about losing someone you love is realizing that you will continue becoming different versions of yourself without them here to witness it.
My mom knew me as a daughter.
She knew me as a young woman.
She knew me as a wife and a mother.
But she never got to know this version of me.
And I wish she could.
I wish she could see Joseph as the adult he has become.
I wish I could call her and talk about what it’s like to have an adult child.
I wish I could tell her that I finally understand some of the things she did that used to make me roll my eyes.
I wish I could tell her that I get it now.
That the overbearing love was rooted in love.
That being called her baby girl was never about my age.
It was about hers.
About the fact that no matter how old I became, I would always be the little girl who made her a mom for the first time.
And maybe that’s what I want to remember this August.
Not just that she’s gone.
But that she was here. She LIVED.
That I was loved fiercely.
That I was somebody’s baby girl.
That I had a mom who made me feel special in a way no one else ever has.
And maybe grief is part of the price we pay for having loved someone that much.
I don’t want to wish August away.
I don’t want to wish away another year of my life just because it hurts to celebrate without her.
I want to learn how to hold both things.
The gratitude and the grief.
The celebration and the sadness.
The joy and the hurt.
The missing and the living.
Because I am still here.
And I think she would want me to keep living.
So today, on National Grief Awareness Day, I’m finding my way back to this little corner of the internet.
Back to writing.
Back to sharing.
Back to my individual journey on our shared path.
Maybe someone reading this is also dreading a birthday.
Maybe it’s a holiday.
Maybe it’s an anniversary.
Maybe it’s just Tuesday.
Because grief doesn’t care what day it is.
And neither does love.
So, Mom…
I hope you were up there celebrating the day you became a mom.
I hope you know how very much you are thought of.
How very much you are missed.
And I hope, somehow, you know that your baby girl still loves you more than words could ever explain.
I wish I could still give you flowers.
Until we meet again…
💜
❤️❤️❤️ #SheLoved #PattiLulu #SheLived #ForeverHerDaughter ❤️❤️❤️