My mom is no longer here in body.
But she’s here.
In the resilience I respect.
In the care I try to offer.
In the quiet, determined power I still seek to understand.
She did it all.
Four boys.
Homemade meals. Clean floors.
School nights, science fairs, scraped knees, PTA meetings.
She worked from home, started her own business, went to school,
and made holidays magical even when money was tight.
She carved a life with what she had, and she gave it to us.
And she did it alone.
We helped eventually. Stubbornly.
But it was her hands that held the shape of the home.
Her love that buffered the storms.
Her body that bore the weight—often more than it ever should have.
What I didn’t know then:
My mother lived with panic disorder.
Possibly even Complex PTSD.
She fought silent battles daily,
even as she cooked dinner and checked homework and folded laundry at 2am.
And then cancer came.
And took her body apart piece by piece.
Her organs failed. Her energy faded.
And still… she showed up.
Even when she could barely move,
she showed up for her boys.
Every minute, every day, without fail.
She didn’t get everything right.
She didn’t have to.
She gave what she had, and what she had was everything.
I’ve learned since that “good enough” isn’t a concession.
It’s a triumph.
It’s a banner carried by women who love so deeply, they stretch their soul around the cracks.
So this is for the Moms who don’t quit.
For the ones who show up aching, but still show up.
Who hold space when no one holds it for them.
Who create warmth with empty hands and grace with a breaking body.
This is for the ones who don’t get medals or rest or much of a thank-you.
The ones who do the work anyway.
Who stitch strength from survival and raise humans with barely enough breath for themselves.
We see you.
We remember you.
We honor you—not because you were perfect, but because you were there.
To the Moms still carrying the fire:
You don’t have to do it all.
But you do.
And somehow… you still love in the middle of it.
That’s more than enough.
That’s everything.
—
And to my mom—
Thank you.
For doing more than anyone ever should’ve had to.
For holding a world together when yours was falling apart.
For showing up, again and again, even when it cost you.
I didn’t always see it.
I didn’t always understand.
And for a while… I lost myself trying to live without your light.
Tried on versions of me that didn’t fit.
Looked for home in places that could never hold me.
But I’ve found it now.
Not in a destination. Not in perfection.
In myself.
I know who I am.
I know what I’m here to do.
And I know how I need to show up—for others, and for me.
That knowing lives in the roots you planted.
In the grit you passed on.
In the fierce, flawed, sacred love you gave us—until the very end.
You were good enough.
You were everything.
And I carry you in how I choose to live now.
Thank you, Mom.
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