This ninth year was one of big changes. My family and I moved across the country, from one coast to the other. It was spurred by a desire for more adventure and to escape the harsh and isolating New England winter. Employment opportunities soon followed, and it was like the move was meant to be. But it wasn’t without its challenges.
The hardest part for me was not the actual move to a place I had only been to once–twenty years ago–or even moving away from friends and family (there are planes, Zoom, email, and cellphones). The hardest part was the emotional disconnection I had between the west coast and the east coast: my mother and all of my memories of her are nailed firmly on the eastern seaboard, in New England and the Mid-Atlantic region.
Even though I lived in a state my mother had not, I was still living in New England. We had spent time in Vermont (briefly) on a trip when I was a child, and it was just a few short hours from where I’d grown up. I could still visit the places I had been with her, and I could overlay memories of my mother almost everywhere I went. I imagined bringing my daughter to these same places to establish some kind of third generation connection between her and the grandmother she’d never know.
I found myself feeling anxious, scared, and sad.
Moving brought a new challenge to my life in grief. I should have known that grief would have a say in the event, but I didn’t expect it. And while no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, I should be better attuned to always expect grief to show up.
And there it was.
Without being able to visit those places and remember my time there with her…what would I do? I’d make new memories, but without any trace of her. I wouldn’t be able to share my new experiences with her or tell her about the various adventures our family had.
It took almost all of 2023 for me to make emotional peace with leaving the physical reminders of my memories, the bookmarks of my life with my mother, and of her life as well. It was a long, hard, introspective road. Logically, moving should make no difference in my grief: my memories are still mine, the places I visited with her still exist (with the obvious changes time brings), there are planes to visit people and places I’d like my daughter to know, and my mother’s ashes came with me…so, she moved whether she liked it or not.
But emotionally, it was another grief experience.
Believe it or not, I felt like I was betraying her by going off and making a new life that she would know nothing about. Marriage and motherhood brought on this feeling as well, but she knew how I felt about those things, we had talked about them often. I know that, had she been alive, she would have encouraged the move. She would have encouraged getting away from people and places that were holding me back and moving toward the blossoming of something new and exciting. I worried that in cutting off the physical connection to the memories, I would be cutting myself off from her. That somehow, my memories wouldn’t follow me.
I felt sad in making another big decision without her. She knew I had planned to have a child and she knew that I wanted a life partner. Her non-presence for both those events has been hard, but this move…I never saw this coming for myself. She knew that I was seeking employment in a variety of states and countries before she died, so moving wasn’t out of the question…it just wasn’t real at that time. I knew that she would support the decision. She had told me that she and my dad would move as close as they could have to where I ended up. My father made the move, and I like to think that she would have as well. She had a big sense of adventure about her and she instilled that in me as well.
The rubber band of emotional stress also snapped this ninth year. I had two emotional breakdowns. The complications of mediocre grief support, unreasonable external expectations, caregiving, isolation (some carry-over from the pandemic), and continually being “the bad guy”–still after all these years–came to a head and dropped me into a place where I couldn’t think anymore or accomplish anything. I hadn’t been able to attend properly to my self-care for several years and it resulted in severe anxiety. I am back in therapy after a six-year hiatus.
I have trimmed down everything in my life (expectations, friends, relatives) and, with the help of my therapist, I am taking time to reinforce the foundation I erected when I began building my life after loss. I am establishing new boundaries away from the pressures and influences of outside forces, and reevaluating my self-care plan so that I can better suit my needs at this point in my life.
I’ve more fully accepted the loss of some roles I played in my pre-loss life (roles I’ve been grieving for years) and the loss of relationships that provide no real positive influence (despite missing them tremendously). I have stopped responding to demands for validation, and, along the way, lost some of the drowning feeling I have been carrying.
I am feeling moderately stronger than I have in several years (legitimately stronger, not just stronger because I had to be in the face of oppositional grief supporters) and more confident in myself. I am getting my voice back–or, rather, my new voice is ready to show itself.
I just found the book club of my dreams (murder mystery!) and am looking to start a book club of my own (on grief). I am ready to meet the next crew of friends, the people who never knew me pre-loss, who can hopefully be there for the long haul, for this version of me. I am more committed to the very small circle of friends that remained with me throughout my struggles.
And I have taken up flower and vegetable gardening. Who knew I had it in me?
I feel like my mother is proud of my progress wherever she is. I am proud of my progress, even if a little surprised (vegetable gardening??). And, as usual, I find myself understanding her more and more as the grief-years pass. We have so much in common now…and yet, we can’t use these growing commonalities to deepen our relationship. It’s such a vicious thing, death and loss and grief.
Nine years has come with tremendous growth and acceptance. More distance from the emotional epicenter of my grief may actually be making that possible. The farther I move away from the chaos the calmer I feel and the more progress I make in tending to the unhealable hurts caused by broken relationships, harsh words, and the endless sadness of grieving my mother.
I will never be over this. I will never not be sad. I will never be without my grief.
This is nine years.
I miss you, Mom. So much.
