For the first two years after my mom died, I lived in a cycle of “this time last year” memories.
“This time last year, she was still here and she was fine… not sick at all."
“This time last year, I had no idea what was coming.”
“This time last year, we were at the hospital.”
“This time last year, she was dying.”
“This time last year, we were having her funeral.”
I couldn’t help but track time that way: through comparison, through pain. I wasn’t just remembering those moments... I was reliving them. In my body. In my dreams. In my heartbreak.
It was especially sharp when the calendar inched closer to the end of her life: the stretch from her diagnosis all the way until the anniversary of her death. That foggy, devastating time where everything changed so quickly, and nothing would ever be the same again. Even the good memories from earlier months hurt, because I knew how the story would end.
But now, something’s shifted.
Those memories still come. But they don’t drag me under the same way. I can think about them without spiraling. I can sit with them (even the hard ones) without feeling broken open.
Now when I look back, I don’t relive the trauma. I remember the truth.
I remember how strong she was. How close we were. How painful it was, yes, but also how how much love lived in those last days.
It still stings, and probably always will. But that sharp edge of shock, that involuntary re-experiencing of the pain? It’s softened.
And that, to me, is a sign of healing..
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