Today, I Need to Write About My Mom.

I miss my mom.

My mom was extraordinary. That’s not just daughter-talk; it’s fact. If you’d only met her at the very end, you might not have known it — but her life could have been a novel. She survived more than most people do in three lifetimes. Abuse, neglect, violence — and still, when she was about my age now (I’m 53, still deciding whether this is my second, third, or fourth act), she started her own business. She ran it for 25 years, on her own terms, and it gave her a comfortable, dignified final chapter.

She was five foot four, but she filled every room she walked into. Stubborn. Brilliant. Proud. Her standards were sky-high, and I didn’t always reach them. She was beautiful, adventurous, fearless. She traveled the world, rode Harley’s, climbed into race cars, and lived fully and unapologetically. And she was right. She was always right. I hate saying that — no daughter likes saying that — but damn it, my mom was never wrong.

In 2021, she got sick.

In those last weeks, we eventually reached the point where going to the bathroom on her own was no longer possible, but she would try anyway. Sometimes it happened in the middle of the night. I’d be dead asleep, all the way on the other side of the house, with the monitor next to my bed tuned into every sound like it was part of my own body. I could hear everything — the faint metallic rattle of her hand on the bed rail — and it would jolt me awake.

And I’d know. She’s trying to get up.

Before my eyes were even open, I’d already be moving down the hall. I’d find her there, working the rail, convinced she could still do it. And she’d look at me with this mix of frustration and stubborn pride, as if to say, I could have done it if you hadn’t come in here.

Maybe in her heart she could have. But her body was already betraying her. That push and pull between us — her fighting to hold on to her independence, me fighting to keep her safe — was exhausting in ways I couldn’t see at the time. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t want to see it. Seeing it would have meant admitting how close we were to the end.

What I didn’t understand until later was the weight she was carrying. She knew something I didn’t: that the last time she got up on her own would be the last time. She knew that when she stayed in bed, she’d be bedridden, and that was the last thing she wanted. She knew when her “last time” for everything was coming — her last step, her last sip of water, her last breath.

I wish I had seen that then. I wish I had understood the sheer willpower it took for her to push herself upright, to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, to stand. Those moments weren’t just about getting to the bathroom — they were her acts of defiance. Her way of saying, I’m still me. I’m still here.

And I missed it. I didn’t see the bravery in it. I didn’t see the defiance. I didn’t see her fighting to hold onto herself for just one more day, one more night, one more trip down the hall.

She was very clean and neat, and I learned to keep a home in the same way. I’d open the windows, put on soft music, make sure her favorite shows were on. I thought I was giving her comfort. But now I think she would have traded all of it for me sitting beside her, talking to her, being present in the quiet. She wouldn’t have cared if the room was messy or the blinds stayed shut. She would have preferred I wasn’t all the way on the other side of the house. Eventually, I moved a small sofa into her room so I could be there more — but I wish I’d done it much sooner.

When they took her away, it was just me in the house. It was quiet, and the quiet felt heavier than I could carry. I remember standing there, not quite sure whether to sit down or start walking or go to bed. Not quite sure what you’re supposed to do when the moment passes from you — when you don’t even realize that the last time you saw her was the last time you’d ever see her. And after four years, I still wake up on any random night at 2:30 in the morning — the time she died, November 1st, 2021, at 2:30 a.m.

And… well. Anyway.

The truth is, my mother was a force. She could hold her own in any room. And at the end, she fought tooth and nail for every last second of herself. I didn’t see the fight for what it was — not until it was over. Not until I understood that every time she tried to get up, she was trying to outrun the day she’d be stuck in that bed for good.

I get it now. And I hate that I get it too late. And maybe… maybe this is me being stubborn and selfish again, because my mom would hate it if I wrote about her on the internet. She would absolutely hate it. She’d be so pissed at me for posting this. That’s us in a nutshell. And she’s probably going to be right about that too.

But I can’t help it. Writing about her helps me when I miss her. And maybe the real reason I’m writing this is because I can’t stop thinking about what I know now… and I have to live with it way too late.