Today is Christmas Eve, and it's the day my side of the family celebrates Christmas. I woke up early this morning, and the first thing I felt was missing my mom. When I miss her, I find different ways to feel closer to her. Sometimes it’s scrolling through the ‘Mom’ photo album on my phone, or revisiting old text conversations we had. Other times, I’ll open Facebook to re-read old posts about her - ones I made, others made, or the posts she made herself.
But this morning, I felt like I got sucker punched. I went to Mom’s Facebook page on my iPhone, and the first thing I saw was a popup: “Remembering Lee Ann Sembay-Lizon. We hope people who love Lee Ann will find comfort in visiting her profile to remember and celebrate her life.” It hit me hard. Seeing that, along with the changes to her profile, felt like a punch in the gut. I know she’s gone, and I know she’s never coming back, but seeing her profile still felt like a little piece of her was alive, untouched. Now her “About” section is in past tense, and there’s a big “REMEMBERING” in front of her name. I hate it. I hate it so much.
I had avoided memorializing Mom’s profile for all this time because I knew what that meant. I’d read about what happens when a page is memorialized, and I didn’t want that for hers. I wanted to hold onto the present.
Then came the real heartbreak: I realized, from the Facebook app on my phone, that all the posts on her page were gone. Completely gone. I immediately texted my sister-in-law to check what she could see, and thankfully, she could still see everything. I went to Facebook on my computer, and, thankfully, it was all there - untouched.
It’s still really hard for me. When you lose someone, it feels like every time something changes, a part of them slips away. Their voice, their presence - those small, everyday things that make them feel close - it’s all a reminder of how much is lost. Seeing her Facebook page change like that was a sharp reminder that she’s not just gone physically, but the way I experience her is changing too. It’s like another piece of her is slipping out of my grasp, even if it’s just a profile online.
I know change can’t be stopped, even the painful kind. As much as it hurt to see her profile memorialized, I had to take a step back and remember what I still have. The texts, the photos, the memories that live in my heart - those are still with me. And while Facebook can change the way I interact with her page, it can’t take away the real, lived moments we shared.
Christmas Eve feels especially heavy today. I wish I could call her, hear her voice, or just sit with her for a while. But as I write this, I remind myself that the love I have for her is timeless. Even though the physical reminders change, that love never will. It’s in everything she left behind - in the little traditions we still carry on, in the stories we tell, and in the quiet moments of reflection.
I miss you, Mom. Merry Christmas.
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