There isn’t anything particularly remarkable happening this week.

At least, that’s what I was about to say.

Luna’s birthday is tomorrow. Danny’s birthday is this week. In another couple of weeks, Luna goes back to school. I’ve been dealing with tuition shit for Eva while simultaneously buying school supplies for Luna because apparently having children means your bank account gets jumped every August.

So, okay. Things are happening.

But nothing happened.

Nothing happened that should explain why, as August has gone on, I’ve felt this heaviness settling over me again.

Maybe it’s the gloomy weather. Maybe grief just has shitty timing.

But fuck, I miss my mom.

And lately, I miss her differently.

I Don’t Almost Call Her Anymore

Last week I realized something that should probably feel like progress.

I’ve stopped almost calling my mom.

For months there were those little moments when muscle memory would beat reality to the punch. Something would happen and I’d think about calling her. I’d see something and want to send her a picture.

And then I’d remember.

She’s gone.

But apparently my brain has finally caught up.

I know I can’t call her now.

I don’t reach for the phone.

And I thought reaching this point would mean I had adjusted somehow. Instead, there is a whole other kind of grief waiting here.

Because before, the pain was in forgetting for a second that she was gone.

Now the pain is that I don’t forget.

I know.

I fucking know.

And there is something about that finality that makes my entire body sink.

I Don’t Even Have Anything Important to Tell Her

That’s the part that gets me.

If I could call my mom right now, the conversation probably wouldn’t begin with some profound declaration.

Our conversations were usually aimless as hell.

We’d talk about something happening in the world. I’d tell her whatever wildly inappropriate thing Luna said and how Danny wants to get rid of YouTube—again—even though I’ve explained that deleting YouTube will not magically delete the phrase from Luna’s vocabulary.

I’d tell her about the tuition problem I’m trying to figure out for Eva while buying Luna’s school supplies and preparing for birthdays.

She’d hear the stress in my voice.

She always did.

She’d poke at me until I finally admitted what was actually wrong, and then she’d become stressed right alongside me.

And somewhere in there, she’d offer to help.

“I pinch in.”

Her semi-broken-English way of telling me I didn’t have to figure everything out alone.

I’d tell her what I bought Danny for his birthday and she’d probably tell me, “No lo merece,” because she would absolutely be on my side about the YouTube argument.

And if I admitted that somewhere during Luna’s birthday week I caved and bought myself some shit too?

“Lo mereces todo, mamita.“

You deserve everything.

God, I miss hearing that.

There Are Things Nobody Tells Me Anymore

I think part of what made me realize I’d stopped reaching for my phone was actually my brother.

We don’t talk much anymore. He rarely called me before, and he calls even less now. The last time we spoke, it was about my mom’s life insurance.

Of course.

During the conversation, he casually mentioned that his youngest daughter was having outpatient surgery.

That day.

I had no idea.

And it hit me that Mom would have told me.

Not because it was gossip or because she was reporting everyone’s business. She was just the connective tissue.

There are pieces of my family I used to know because she made sure I knew them.

And lately, I’ve started realizing that connection worked in the other direction, too.

There have been some frustrating things happening with my extended family recently. Nothing I need to unpack completely here, but enough that I’ve found myself hearing things being said about me that simply aren’t true. Apparently, I “never answer” anyone’s calls.

Except they don’t call.

It’s such a stupid little thing. The kind of family bullshit I would normally roll my eyes at and move on from.

But this time it hurt.

Because my mom would know.

She knew who called me. She knew who I called back. She knew how hard I tried to keep everyone connected because half the time, she was part of those conversations. And I know she wouldn’t let someone repeat something about me that wasn’t true without saying something.

That’s when another piece of this loss clicked into place:

My mom isn’t here to protect me anymore.

And I know how that sounds. I’m grown. I’m somebody’s mother. I can defend myself.

But apparently you never outgrow the comfort of knowing there is one person in the room who will say, No. That’s not my daughter.

I didn’t realize how safe that made me feel until she wasn’t here to do it anymore.

Without her, family relationships are changing. Information reaches me differently. Or late. Or sometimes probably not at all. People who were connected through her don’t necessarily reach for one another now.

And sometimes I’m left wondering whether the relationship I thought I had with someone was really a relationship with them at all—or whether Mom was the bridge we were both standing on.

You don’t only lose the person.

Sometimes you lose the family you knew through them, too.

It’s Almost Back-to-School Time

My mom didn’t celebrate birthdays, so Luna’s birthday isn’t necessarily the thing making me ache for her.

It’s everything around it.

I’d still tell her about the cake. The decorations. What Luna got. What she said. Whether she liked everything.

And then we’d be getting ready for school.

Mom usually came with us to school supply drop-off. She wanted to meet Luna’s teacher, and she wanted Luna’s teacher to know who she was too, just in case Grandma ever needed to pick her up.

Sometimes she’d randomly appear at my house with something she’d bought for Luna for school.

Soon I’m going to do those things without her.

And then Luna will go back to school.

The house will get quiet.

Really quiet.

I’ll be home alone for most of the day, and maybe that’s part of what I’m anticipating without realizing it.

Because there used to be someone I could put into the quiet just by picking up my phone.

I’ve Been Trying to Make Life Beautiful

The strange thing is that I have been living.

Maybe more intentionally than I have in a long time.

I’ve been trying to romanticize my life a little.

I’ve gone to major festivals and let myself get excited about music and clothes and ridiculous little experiences. I’ve been taking care of my mother’s plants, watching new leaves unfurl from things she once cared for with her own hands.

I’ve started reading again.

That one feels bigger than it probably sounds.

I’ve even fallen into junk journaling—collecting scraps and stickers and Polaroids and tickets and little pieces of a life that would otherwise get thrown away. Making something beautiful out of things that might look insignificant to somebody else.

And unexpectedly, all of it has been healing.

Not healed.

Healing.

There’s a difference.

I’ve realized romanticizing my life isn’t necessarily about pretending everything is wonderful. Sometimes it’s just choosing to notice that something beautiful is happening while something painful is happening too.

The plant grew a new leaf.

The concert was incredible.

The light coming through the window looked beautiful.

I finished another chapter.

I made something with my hands.

I laughed really fucking hard.

I still miss my mom.

All of those things can be true at once.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been learning this year.

She Was Interested in My Life

I’ve tried to figure out exactly what I miss about talking to my mom because, obviously, I have people.

I have a partner. I have friends. I have family.

I am loved.

But nobody replaces your mom.

And one of the things I miss most is painfully simple:

She was always interested in my life.

Not just the big things.

My life.

The minute struggles mattered to her because they were happening to me.

If something hurt me, she empathized. If I was overwhelmed, she wanted to help. If I was beating myself up, she’d remind me that I deserved good things.

And when I really needed my mom, her voice would change.

I’d become one of her babies again.

“Chula. Preciosa. Hermosa. Princesa.“

That same sweet, almost baby-talk voice she’d use with her grandbabies.

For however long I was in her arms, I didn’t have to be the mom figuring out tuition and school supplies. I didn’t have to be the partner or the professional or the person everyone else needed something from.

I was her mamita.

Her baby.

And fuck.

I miss that.

I want her hugs.

I want to put my head in her lap and get piojitos.

I want to tell her something completely inconsequential and have her listen like it matters.

I want to hear, “No te preocupes, mija. Todo va salir bien.“

And maybe that’s why grief has felt heavier again.

Nothing happened.

There wasn’t an anniversary. There wasn’t some giant catastrophe that reopened the wound.

Life just kept moving.

Birthdays came. School supplies needed to be bought. Plants kept growing. Books got opened. Concerts happened. Little scraps of paper found their way into journals.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped forgetting that I couldn’t call my mom.

Now I have to learn how to live with knowing.

So I’m going to keep making things beautiful.

I’m going to keep going to shows and caring for her plants. I’m going to read books and fill journal pages with stupid little things I don’t want to throw away. I’m going to celebrate birthdays and take pictures and notice when the light looks especially pretty.

Not because I’m trying to outrun grief.

Maybe romanticizing my life is just another way of loving the fact that I’m still here.

And maybe some days, loving my life and desperately wishing my mom were still part of it are going to have to exist together.

Today is one of those days.

Nothing happened.

I just really fucking miss my mom.