Two Years Without Her: Reflections on Grief’s Path
Today, September 10th, marks two years since my mom transitioned to Spirit.
Two years feels both shockingly quick and yet heartbreakingly short. Time doesn’t really move in straight lines when you’re grieving. Grief loops, it circles, and in the most inopportune time, crashes over you when you least expect it.
There are mornings I wake up and the air feels heavy because I just had a dream with her, and it felt so real. Like she was still alive.
Other mornings, I laugh at a memory that slips in, and I feel grateful for our continued connection.
The Early Days: Learning to Breathe Again
In the beginning, grief was tidal. It knocked me down again, and again without warning. Grocery store aisles, familiar songs on the radio, even someone else’s laugh could send me into a tear-filled moment.
Those early days felt like standing in the middle of an ocean storm with no land in sight.
I remember thinking: How does the world just keep going? Don’t they know everything has changed?
I wanted to move through this grief so I could “get back to normal” yet what I have learned is there is no going back - just moving through it to the other side.
How Grief Has Shifted
Over these two years, the waves have grown gentler. Not gone, but changed. They’ve taught me that grief doesn’t follow neat stages the way we’re told it should. It isn’t a checklist you complete and set aside.
Instead, it’s a spiral. You revisit denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, and even acceptance, sometimes all in one afternoon. There are moments of peace where I feel her presence softly, and then moments where the longing is too much to bear.
What’s different now is that I no longer fear the spiral. I’ve learned I can move through it and find my footing again. I know the wave will crest, and on the other side, I’ll still be standing.
A Continuing Relationship
One of the hardest truths, and most beautiful realizations, is that my relationship with my mom didn’t end when she died. It simply changed form.
Some days, she’s in a memory that makes me laugh. Other days, she’s in the silence that makes me cry.
Sometimes she shows up in the courage it takes for me to keep living, loving, and building a life she would be proud of.
Her love is still here, woven into the choices I make, the compassion I extend to others, and even in the resilience at times I had forgotten.
Rituals of Remembrance
Anniversaries can stir up so much. They’re not just dates on a calendar. They are doorways into memory. They remind us of the love we have lost, but also the love that still lives within us.
This year, I’ve found comfort in small rituals:
Ensuring I greet her in the morning, and tell her I love her at night.
Talking outloud to her as I drive my commute.
Turning on her favorite musicians and reminiscing of our road trips together.
Sitting quietly, letting myself feel whatever comes up, without judgment.
These simple acts help me anchor grief in love instead of just loss. They give my heart a place to rest.
An Invitation to You
If you have lost someone, you know how anniversaries can feel heavy. They’re reminders of absence but also of the love that is continuously shared.
Today, I invite you to pause and notice:
Who do you carry in your heart?
How does their presence still ripple through your life?
What small ritual or remembrance could you create for them?
Grief is universal, but it’s also deeply personal. However it shows up for you, let it be okay. Let it be yours.
Grief isn’t something we “get over.” It’s something we learn to live alongside. Two years later, I’m still learning.
Always loving. Always carrying her with me.
If you are moving through your own waves of loss, know this: you are not alone. Wherever you are on the spiral of grief, your love is valid, your story is sacred, and your healing matters.
-xoxo,
Heather
Mom & I in early 1980s