I (Still) Miss Her Every Day

And that's okay.

A picture of the main building of my university! In Scotland! Photo by Johnny Briggs on Unsplash

Four months ago on July 3, 2022, my mom died. It was, perhaps, the most intense, traumatic part of my life. The days and weeks afterward were spent binge-watching all eight seasons of The Vampire Diaries and packing up my life and packing up my mom’s life in order to move to a new country to pursue an MLitt in Fantasy literature in Scotland. To say that it’s been a whirlwind is an understatement. It feels like running and running and not stopping for anything and having to survive and then somehow I’ve found myself in Scotland, grieving and thinking about fantasy literature and my mom.

I was telling all of this to a new UK-based therapist yesterday, and she said from the way I was talking about it, it sounds like it’s been one thing after another, back-to-back. Which is accurate! The first few weeks in Scotland I went to fresher’s week and spent my time meeting new people, figuring out the lay of the land, unpacking my belongings and unpacking all of my emotional baggage into this new country, this new aspect of my life.

Another view of my university. Photo by Roman Akash on Unsplash

I still don’t know how to balance the loss of my mom with the gain in knowledge and new friends and reading material and all of these new life experiences that my mom won’t know, can’t know. There have been so many times where I would have LOVED to talk to her about a fantasy book I’m reading, or a scavenger hunt in a museum I explored, or the food I’ve tasted, the conversations I’ve had. The clothing, the words, the roommates, the moments that I just want to tell to her, my mother, and have her listen in a way that only a mother can. I’m thankful to have a strong support network, even when my depression and anxiety tries to tell me otherwise, and tries to convince me that I have no friends, that I’m unlikable, that I’m a burden with my depression cloud, and that I have no idea what I’m doing (okay, maybe I really don’t know what I’m doing).

The point being, the ache I feel in wanting to talk to her and not being able to do so is unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my life. I understand the metaphors and writings of people who go into the great unknown in order to try and talk to the people who are no longer in our reality. There are times where I’ve called out to my mom and wondered if she could actually hear me, in this weird modern life, and what it actually means. What would I want her to say? What would be my reaction if I actually got through to her?

But no. All I can do at this point in time is go by the assumption of what she would have said, what she would have told me, what her response would have been. All I can do moving forward is look back at the past for guidance to the future. I know she would be proud of me, but I still would like to tell her that. Like, to her face.

I still miss my mom every single day.

And that’s okay.

Madeline Wahl is a writer, solo traveler, and millennial caregiver to her mom, who recently passed from terminal cancer. Her writing has appeared on Reader's Digest, HuffPost, Red Magazine, and McSweeney's, among others. She is working on her first novel.