Reflecting on the Enduring Grief of Losing My Mother After 18 Years
During a tense Game 1 of the NBA Playoffs between the Knicks and Celtics, my sons were enthusiastically cheering, their voices reaching the intensity of jet engines. As I tried to follow the score and find my AirPods to block out the noise, a commercial interrupted Jalen Brunson’s play.
The AT&T ad showed people in various scenic locations connecting with loved ones, ending with the message: Call your mom. This immediately triggered a feeling of unease.
I wish I could, but my mother, Shelby, passed away in an accident 18 years ago. My grief is now the age of an adult, capable of voting and enlisting. It’s been a constant presence, influencing my decisions even when I thought I was in control. Like an 18-year-old, my grief is sometimes calm and collected, other times impulsive and demanding. It’s complex, opinionated, and vocal.
Time doesn’t eliminate grief; it expands it. The pain doesn’t disappear but lingers, waiting to resurface. This isn’t a failure to heal; it’s the nature of love and loss over time.
Grief no longer overwhelms me daily. It’s more like a constant humidity, affecting my perspective even when I’m unaware. It’s deeply ingrained in my weltanschauung, influencing how I watch basketball with my sons and how a commercial can suddenly disorient me. My grief is quieter, but it can still strike unexpectedly, even after others believe I should have “moved on.”
This is normal. Neuroscientist Mary-Frances O’Connor’s research indicates that even long after a loss, people continue to “search” for the deceased, expecting their return. This is rooted in biology; grief activates the brain regions associated with attachment and reward. We are driven to seek those we’ve lost, even when we know they’re gone. This explains why years later, a scent, a commercial, or a familiar gesture can trigger the pain anew. Absence, it seems, remains a form of presence, and the brain struggles to differentiate.
Grief is not linear. Yet, support systems are dwindling precisely when they are needed most. In Texas, the 988 suicide and crisis hotline is facing a crisis, resulting in many unanswered calls due to overwhelmed centers. Nationally, the situation is equally concerning, with the Trump administration’s decision to cut funding jeopardizing school-based mental health programs, leaving students without vital support. Rural states, already lacking mental health resources, face dire consequences, such as reduced trauma-informed care for Native American students in Nebraska and fewer resources for at-risk youth in Texas. A recent August 2024 poll showed that 84% of Americans believe school staff are essential in spotting early warning signs, yet support is being cut.
The Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) plans to reduce its workforce, impacting mental health services and causing longer wait times for appointments. The thought of enduring that initial pain and trauma without support is frightening.
Mental health professionals and organizations are doing important work, but beyond recent budget cuts, there is a lack of national policies that address the reality of loss, such as expanded bereavement leave, sustained mental health funding, and public recognition of collective trauma. Grassroots efforts like the COVID Grief Network honor the many Americans who died from COVID-19, but there is no federally recognized national memorial. While Evermore is researching bereavement experiences, the U.S. lacks a universal national bereavement leave policy.
This lack of recognition reflects a societal discomfort with prolonged mourning. Connecting with others who have experienced profound loss creates an immediate understanding. Embracing this truth would make navigating difficult experiences easier. In the past eight years, I’ve connected thousands of grievers across countries for events timed to holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, helping them reclaim agency during sensitive times. We need more spaces for these connections to honor grief without pressure to move on. Grief is a journey that requires support, both individually and collectively, not a problem to be solved.
I’ve matured alongside my grief, developing coping mechanisms. I often describe myself as “living with loss” rather than “grieving.” Yet, there are moments when it suddenly resurfaces, disrupting the sense of closure. As I’m pulled back to reality by my sons cheering during a game, I continue to learn to live with the ever-evolving presence of grief, much like a teenager finding their way.