Soulful Sunday #2 – Letting Go

There are a few events that have happened since my mom died that have stayed with me. They have become memories that I will always cherish. Some of these memories are pleasant, while others are horrific, but they are all a part of me, they make up the woman I have become since my mom died, and today, I’ve grown a little more.

I spent some time with my aunt and uncle last Monday, who have been like second parents to me. I reminisced with my uncle about cook outs, summer visits with my friend Ashley, and back to memories of my mom. I both laughed and cried with my aunt as we did the same. My uncle was diagnosed with COPD a few years ago, and I will not discuss his personal business, because it would be rude to do so, but I will say that he spoke of death, and it made me realize something. He might logically be the next one to go, because of his condition, but the truth is none of us are promised tomorrow. I decided at that moment that I am going to make more of an effort to keep in better contact with the people closest to me, to appreciate the gift of time, which happens to be my love language. I need to stop living in the past and accept things the way they are at this exact moment. I believe that I fall in love so easily with peoples spirits, passions, and rawness. I fall in love with the way music makes me feel. I fall in love easily with things that make me feel.. the drops of rain that slowly trickle down my living room window, showing the sadness that I’ve kept bottled up for 3 years, the fictional worlds that I can escape to, where I sometimes feel like a part of me belongs in that universe, and the little every day things, like the feel of the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and the coffee on my tongue. I believe I fall so easily because I’ve been through so much heartache.

What I’m trying to say is that today I realized I’ve been trying to live in a world that no longer exists. I was clinging to the past because my mom lived there and I wasn’t ready to let her go, but this evening, I said my final goodbye to the woman who birthed me.

The other day after having a mental break down on a Marco Polo video I sent Amanda she sent me a video back, and I think I’ve replayed that video 20 times since she sent it. I told her not to worry about me and in the video she sent in reply she said that she’s been worried about me for a long time. She started to continue her sentence, but she stopped and looked straight at the camera, her gaze pierced through the screen and straight to my soul. With tears in her eyes she repeated “I’ve been worried about you for a long time.” At first I was confused by what she meant. I didn’t think I had shown her any reason to worry, and I started to feel guilty for making her worry. I realized, today, what she meant was I’m not the same, and I don’t mean understandable changes because I’ll never truly be the same after experiencing such a great loss, but what I thought I was doing a good job of hiding didn’t fool those closest to me. Amanda knew my smile was fake, my laugh wasn’t genuine, (not always but enough for her and Neil to notice,) and my soul was dark. She knew it before I did! So did my husband.

Last night, Neil and I watched an episode of Austin City Limits with Ed Sheeran. He spoke about his grandmother and how he and his brother promised her they would work together, even though his brother is a classical composer, and Ed Sheeran writes pop. The album didn’t get recorded before his grandma died, and he wrote a song about how he felt after her death. It pulled at my heart strings, so hard, in fact; that I felt the anger, and guilt, and aggression bust. Ed Sheeran’s words broke down my wall and I sobbed the most healing sob I’ve had since I lost my mother. There’s a line in the song that says ” A heart that’s been broke is a heart that felt love, so I’ll sing Hallelujah. You were an angel in the shape of my mum. When I fell down you’d be there holding me up, spread your wings as you go, when God takes you back he’ll say Hallelujah, you’re home.”

For the first time I cried tears of joy because she is finally free from pain. She can run and dance, and I bet you anything at all she’s Heaven’s housekeeper!

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a letter to my mom, and I hope you, my dear readers don’t mind, but I need to share this one.


I’ve felt your presence many times since you’ve left. I know you’ll never truly leave as long as I’m here, because you’re a part of me. I have the gray streak in my hair to prove it! Today was the first day that I felt you though, that your touch felt warm. I think I was remembering how cold your body felt when I last touched you. I’ve been holding on to something that was no longer there, and I was in denial, sort of. I accepted your death, I suppose, but I didn’t accept that I’d never see you or hear you again, and I know that doesn’t make sense, but I guess a part of me just wasn’t ready, I am now. How blessed am I to have had such a strong bond and deep love for a mother that it literally broke me? Not just my heart, but my spirit. I know you’ve felt my sorrow, and I’m so sorry you had to endure such pain, but I am so happy that you are finally free of it. Genuinely, happy. There may be tears running down my cheeks, but there’s a smile on my face. Spread your wings, mom. Hallelujah, you’re home!

letting go

I feel like a weight has been lifted, and I know that I’m still going to have break downs of sadness, maybe anger, and guilt. I need to feel every emotion that comes, but for the first time in a very long time, I feel relief. Thanks to all of you for your love and support.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Love & life lessons,


P.S. The song by Ed Sheeran is called Supermarket Flowers, and I’m sharing with those of you who would like to listen.

This entry was posted in Family, Grief, Loss, Memories, Soulful Sunday and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Soulful Sunday #2 – Letting Go

  1. Laura Beth says:

    As I said on Facebook last night, I love love love these posts!!

    Liked by 1 person

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