i miss my mom

Every year, as my birthday approaches, I feel my mother’s presence deeply. I can almost hear her laughter, feel her warmth, and smell the faint aroma of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. But she's not here, and that absence echoes louder with each year that passes. Without fail, I find myself more in my feels than usual during the week leading up to my birthday. It’s a hurricane of emotions—missing my mother, reflecting deeply on the past year, and an overwhelming sense of pressure to level up in this new, upcoming year of life.

I miss my mom every day, but the grief is debilitating on my birthday. My best friend isn’t here to celebrate with me, and that absence is profound. My mom lived for a good party. She always went above and beyond to make birthdays extra special growing up. We didn’t have a lot of money, but somehow—some way—she made it work, throwing the most extravagant celebrations. One birthday that stands out to me was my 7th birthday—the balloons, the candy-filled Pikachu piñata she insisted on despite our tight budget, and the way her maniacal laughter rang out as she chased and corralled my cousins, siblings, and several classmates around the yard.

Another one that stands out was when I turned 18 years old. We went to Morongo Casino. For reference, I am not much of a gambler, and I think in most places, you have to be 21, but not at this place, I guess…anywho…she gave me a crisp $50 bill and told me and my bestie Sam to tear up the slots and bring home “the moolah.” Sadly, no moolah was won. However, my grandma was there to hand over a 2x on that $50, giving me more opportunities to win big.

My mom was the life of the party, her smile lighting up every room, her laughter infectious. I miss the way her laughter would build—starting with a small giggle, then gradually erupting into this infectious, full-bellied laugh that would leave everyone else in stitches. Even now, when I hear someone laugh like that, I can almost imagine it’s her.

Every time I reach a new milestone in life, like a birthday, I feel an overwhelming sadness and guilt for celebrating without her. She’s been gone for eleven birthdays now, and each year somehow feels worse. Looking back, I might have been numb for the first decade since her passing, but now the emotions are amplified. Maybe they’re heightened because I feel guilty for being in a happy place in my life. Each year, I lean more into my authenticity, expanding on the once-shy child, and letting my true Leo self thrive. But with that growth comes guilt—guilt for living my life to the fullest, for pursuing a vibrant and love-filled life without her in it. I know I deserve happiness, joy, and all the good things, just like everyone else…but I can’t quite surrender to the blessings in my life.

It’s crazy. It’s a nonsensical feeling. It never serves me right. But that’s just how it is.

Grief is like that—showing up unannounced, even in the middle of joy. You think you’re okay, that you’ve made peace with the loss, but then a small, seemingly insignificant moment—a scent, a song, or a memory—opens the floodgates again. Grief has this funny way of showing up uninvited, especially when you least expect it.

She was my biggest champion, and now she’s my guardian angel. She would tell me to cut the pity party and live for the both of us. To shine bright, to illuminate the world with who I am at my core, and to live a colorful life. While it’s wonderful to remember her warmth and love, it’s also incredibly heavy moving through life trying to live for two people. It’s a lot of pressure, self-induced—fully aware.

My go-to remedy for getting through the grief is to write, to listen to some of her favorite songs, and honestly, to look back on my own posts of her favorites and revisit them to feel closer to her spirit in these moments.

this one in particular helps me through:

Rosa's Recommendations: The Mother's Day Edition

Whenever I feel like the sadness is too much, I turn on her favorite songs. Dance With My Father by Luther Vandross & Just The Way You Are by Bruno Mars. There’s something comforting in hearing the songs we danced or cried to in the living room on a random Tuesday night when life was too heavy or too happy. It’s a way of keeping her spirit alive, even when the grief feels unbearable.

In these eleven years, I’ve learned that grief doesn’t really go away; it just changes. Some years, it’s a dull ache. Other years, it’s like the first day all over again. But each time, I grow a little stronger, a little more accepting of the fact that she’s still with me in the small things—the music, the memories, the stories. And while the pain is still there, so is the joy she brought into my life.

Every time I miss her, I remind myself to live a little louder, a little brighter, because that’s what she would want. And if there’s one thing I can share from this grief, it’s this: hold the ones you love a little closer, laugh a little harder, and savor those small, beautiful moments.

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