To Mom, From Mom

And grief did set her free.

Photo by Mark Olsen on Unsplash

No one knows what I go through on Mother’s Day.

There are certainly assumptions. The grief, the loss of my mom a few years ago, is the most glaringly obvious. And yes, her absence rings out each year as this holiday approaches.

What y’all don’t understand is that her absence lives with me every single day.

I’ve had to learn to live in the midst of grief. I’ve had to evolve and grow into a new Aubrey who is without her mother, her comfort, her safe space. And there are times when that weighs on me. Other times—most times—I am grateful for who I’ve become both in spite of and because of that loss.

Mother’s Day is complicated because all three of my babies were born in April. And two out of three of them, the twins, spent Mother’s Day, my first Mother’s Day with them earthside, in the NICU. So my holiday with my newborns was spent surrounded by monitors and praying for the day I would hear those liberating words: They get to go home today!

And Simone, she came home like two days before the holiday. I was deeply affected by leaving her in the hospital after she was born. I felt like I had failed, as if by leaving her there I was leaving my heart. I spent the weeks immediately following her birth, the birth of my first child, wrapped in depression and anxiety and grief. I would pump and weep and eat a little bit.

And through it all, my mom was there to comfort me.

I brought Simone home, and my mom had set up our apartment with balloons and Mother’s Day cards and gifts. She called me and we wept and cried. And then, she wrapped up the call with a final suggestion:

”Your sister-in-law is hosting a Mother’s Day tea at the church this weekend. I know you just brought the baby home, but I was wondering if you’d want to get dressed up and go?”

My daughter was born in 2021, and COVID was still alive and rampant and scary, especially for a brand-new mommy who had spent her pregnancy in the full pandemic level restrictions and protocols. Not to mention, I am old school (and my mom taught me to be), so bringing babies out before they were at least a month old felt wrong to me.

And besides, we had next year. That’s what I had told her. I was already counting down the days.

We found out about her stage four lung cancer a month later.

It is the single largest regret I have, that I didn’t spend my mom’s final Mother’s Day with her.

Mother’s Day was my mom’s favorite holiday. If we forgot it, she would lose her shit. (I’m not exaggerating, am I, Daddy?) And I was her only daughter, whom she was ecstatic to finally be able to be a grandmother for.

Mother’s Day is complicated because I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I got the rotten end of the stick. I was born later than my brothers, so I spent a lot of time watching and living through their experiences, hopeful for when I got them. And it felt like my versions were always tainted.

My senior prom was moved to a random airport hanger in the middle of nowhere.

My dad almost missed my graduation because his flight got canceled.

My wedding was filled with extra layers of family drama that were both brand new and stressful to navigate.

My pregnancy happened during a once in a generation global pandemic.

My daughter’s birth was an early induction that resulted in my newborn being admitted to the NICU for two weeks.

And so, I was really looking forward to the simplicity of normalcy. I just wanted a normal experience of being a mom on mother’s day…with her mom.

And now…

It has taken me some years to unpack the feelings, the complexity of my grief. But it’s because of my daughters that I’ve had to. I refused to give them a childhood marred by my own disappointment with life.

My mom never did that.

I spent a lot of my oldest daughter’s first year of life really sitting and remembering my mother. I thought a lot about my childhood and how joy-filled and safe it was. But that happened in the midst of a lot for my mother.

A woman who had two older children and was probably beginning to explore who she was outside of birth and care-taking and the traditional women roles within the home, who suddenly had an infant daughter to care for. With two teenage sons.

There were days I know she was tired. And stressed. And probably frustrated.

And yet…all I felt as a little girl was endlessly cherished and wanted and loved.

It’s so interesting to consider my mother’s frame of mind when I was a little girl. And I feel more connected than ever with her, and she’s not here to share in that. This is the real grief for me.

Because all of the stories she shared in the car—we spent a lot of time in the car—and the nuggets of wisdom she’d share while we were cleaning the house and the moments when she’d drop off a pack of new underwear or buy some socks when I didn’t need them. All of that makes so much sense now.

I find myself caught in similar habits and patterns as I care for my family. Anticipating the need before it is vocalized. Noticing the nuanced emotions, the undercurrents that come with mothering that are just as spiritual as they are natural.

I understand the lessons behind the stories. The encouragement she gave me that she’s spent her whole life feeling “weird”, but as she’s gotten older, she embraced it. How she laughed and lived out loud, without apology…but in private, would feel self-conscious and shy.

I remember the times when I’d walk into her bathroom and find her in front of her mirror, pulling at the little fupa that carried me and my brothers. And how she’d complain…and I would emphatically tell her how beautiful I thought she was. And the times I’d find her in tears while getting dressed, only for us to end up giggling together as I helped her pick something to wear.

I get all that now…each and every time I interact with one of my daughters.

In my oldest, I remember how I would sneak into bed with my mom every single morning. And so now, when she does exactly the same thing, I hold her a little closer. And how she has so much to say…I remember my mom quoting to me to “watch my mouth; it will be the thing that will get me in trouble.”

I see now that she was speaking of herself.

In my oldest twin, I see the tenacity and boldness my mom lived with. The adventurer who loved white water rafting and (eventually) laughed when I jumped off of a cliff in Mexico. The way that she’s loud and silly and so perceptive. And her high soprano voice that mirrors my mom’s song.

And finally, in my youngest. Her namesake: Corinne Leigh. There are pieces of my mom that the rest of the world rarely met. The soft and sensitive side that I feel so honored to have known well. The Leigh Ann who was an introvert at heart; who was selective and didn’t let just anyone get too close. Who loved blankets and comfort and consistency. But who was incredibly witty, who let the filter down when she felt safe.

My Mom left breadcrumbs for me within my girls.
I want to leave some breadcrumbs for them too.

Many people in my life, I know (trust me, y’all, I am quite perceptive) have been tripping over the ways I’ve been sharing my heart out loud. Some of the topics I’ve explored, the evolution in my thought and theology…it’s been a journey for me.

But a very necessary one. Call it my mecca.

I think so much of what my mom grieved for me was the ways she wanted me to keep evolving. And her longing to witness and participate in that.

I remember she kept telling me, in her final days, that she wanted more time with me. And I hated when she said it because 1) it was like a knife twisting in my side; I wanted it too, desperately. But 2) it felt like a slight slap in the face to the relationship we had already shared.

We were very close; she was my best friend (truly). I told her absolutely everything, and like a good mother, she often didn’t even need me to say anything. She could read me better than anyone. She could read most of the people she encountered that way.

But what I understand now, after years of growing and changing, is that what my mom wanted was to see the truth settle in my bones: that I was a marvelous and altogether unique masterpiece. God’s design, Their precious daughter.

As I’ve walked out my womanhood, as I’ve tasted and seen of God’s goodness, Their REALNESS, the clouds have cleared. Grief helped me to see the endless splendor of Their goodness. And furthermore, to understand the depths of how They long for us to know we are enough.

It is not only my legacy, but my mother’s, to loudly become. To shout from the rooftops that God created and designed me, designed her, designed my daughters in their fullness. Every nook, cranny, desire, and imperfection is intentional.

I long for my daughters to carry that with a lot less shame. It is my deepest prayer for them. The prayer of their grandmother: that they would know, deeply know, the Spirit of the True and Living God made all of them. And they are altogether beautiful in Their sight.

And so Mommy’s words still ring true.

My body belongs to me.

Wait for the one God has for me.

In everything, give thanks.

In everything. She taught me that when she lost her mother.

Losing my mother gave me so much of her essence. I can only hope a little bit rubs off on these little girls…

I don’t think I have to hope too much though. They are already doing it.

And I fully intend to pull out the toilet paper BDSM whips at their bridal showers too.

Mom, I don’t just miss you. I am you, in so many ways.

And your eagle wings are still somehow extending down from that spiritual plane where the ancestors reside.

Give Grandma and Auntie hugs for me. And know that down here, we are doing just fine.

I know you’re smiling. And you’ll always rock my world 🤍

AN: Enjoy Mommy’s favorite song, and dance along with the women who rock your world too.