Dear Mom

You have always been my light, my one constant in life. So much of who I am traces back to you. We shared a rare bond. Maybe it started early—those extra six weeks in your womb, held a little longer than planned, as if we already knew we weren’t in a hurry to part.

That closeness followed us. We talked almost daily—checking in, sharing the ordinary moments that somehow felt essential. You called me until you could no longer hold a phone, and even then, you had the nurses call me every night. When words faded, we found other ways to communicate. Hand gestures, eye movements, smiles. You squeezed my hand until just last week, and I know how hard you tried, right up until the end.

Over the past few years, I rarely left the house, mostly to see you. My days quietly arranged themselves around you, your presence steady at the center of everything.

You were the kind of mom I wish more people could experience. Your good heart showed up in a thousand quiet, steady ways, loving not only us girls, your grandchildren, your best friend’s kids, and the Girl Scouts, but every child who crossed your path. You brought that same tenderness into teaching, shaping hundreds of little lives with patience and joy. I read so many letters from parents, each one filled with gratitude, thanking you for loving their children like your own.

You encouraged me to follow my dreams through decades of gymnastics, cheer practices, dance auditions, and long hopes. When the answer was no, (which it often was) you reminded me to never give up and to keep going. When the answer was (finally) yes, we celebrated together. Auditioning always felt like our journey—you were always my cheerleader.

You and Dad shared an iconic love. One rooted in devotion, partnership, and choosing each other again and again. I recently found your love letters from 1974 Handwritten, tender, full of hope. Holding them felt like touching the beginning of everything.

You were an extraordinary friend. You held friendships for decades, your longest spanning 57 years, and you showed up with the same care, loyalty, and thoughtfulness you brought to everything else. You remembered everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries without even trying, never needing a reminder, always being the one who reminded us. You made people feel remembered, valued, and loved, simply by paying attention.

I watched you meet hard moments with intention. You stayed true to yourself. You chose your way carefully, never letting the noise pull you away from who you were or the kindness you wanted to lead with. I've always admired that about you.

Then in 2018, progressive supranuclear palsy arrived quietly, and then kept taking—relentlessly stealing pieces of you each day. Your motor skills faded, but our connection remained. I loved holding your hand, playing your favorite songs, and resting in the quiet presence we still shared.

PSP will never define you. If anything, it only revealed what I already knew to be true—that at your core, you are light. You never needed words for that to be felt. Your love remained and you still lit up the room. The nurses called you their favorite. I wasn’t surprised.

I will be eternally grateful I was guided back to you in your final hour. That gentle nudge from the universe. I will always remember kissing your forehead one last time and sensing a deep sense of peace settle in. You are finally free.

I’ll miss our closeness, the rhythm of us, the way being near you felt like home. There was never a question of where I belonged. It was always with you.