Two Years Without My Mother — And Still Untangling the Grief.

Content note: This post talks about grief, complicated family dynamics, and parental trauma. If you're not in a space for that today, skip it. If you are—pull up a chair, grab a margarita (or a tissue), and let’s go there.

Two years ago, my mother died.

And two years later, I’m still standing here—grieving someone I wasn’t sure I even liked. That sounds terrible, right? Maybe it is. But I promised myself when I started this blog that I’d tell the truth, even when it’s messy, complicated, or not wrapped in a bow with a Pinterest-approved quote about healing.

So here it is: I’m grieving my mom. And I’m also grieving the relationship I never had with her.

She was funny. She was charismatic. People loved her. My brothers always had great stories to tell of her and them, and I don’t doubt their experiences. But they didn’t live my version of her. The version I got was... different. I was the youngest, which might’ve made it worse. Or maybe I was just more aware of the things she tried to hide from everyone else. There were definitely good times. She tried. She really did. Until we just always fell apart. It was inevitable.

She struggled with mental illness. A lot. And instead of connecting with her through that lens, I made it my life mission to not become her. I swore I would raise my kids differently. Be more stable. More emotionally present. Less... chaotic. What I didn’t realize is that in trying to avoid her shadows, I lost huge pieces of myself in the process.

And now she’s gone. No more conversations. No more chances for clarity. No more “maybe one day she’ll see me.”

And it hurts.

It hurts more than I expected. It hurts in weird ways—like when my kids randomly bring her up and tell a funny story about her, and I have to sit there smiling while my chest cracks open. Because they missher. They adored her. They still do.

And it messes with me.

Because now I’m grieving not just the woman who died, but the mother I wish I had. I’m grieving the family I lost because of lies she told. I’m grieving the version of myself that never got to feel safe with her, and the younger me who kept hoping things would change.

And I’m tired. Tired of pretending that grief only belongs to those who had “good moms.” That it’s only valid when your memories are soft and sweet. Because grief is grief—even when it’s tangled up in pain and confusion and old wounds that never healed right.

Taylor Swift once said, “I’m a crumpled up piece of paper lying here, ’cause I remember it all, all, all too well.”

And I do remember it all. The good, the bad, the hurt, the humor. It’s all there. And somehow, I’m still grieving all of it. Even when I don’t want to.

So this post is for anyone out there who lost someone they had a complicated relationship with. For anyone who feels like their grief doesn’t “qualify” because their story wasn’t perfect. For anyone whose family dynamics got messier after a parent died. For anyone raising kids while trying to break generational trauma—without breaking yourself.

I see you.

And if all you did today was keep going, you’re doing enough.

P.S. If this post hit a little too close to home, I’m sorry—and also, welcome. You’re not alone in this messy middle. Healing doesn’t look like perfection. Sometimes, it just looks like making it through another day with your heart still (barely) in one piece.

Margaritas optional. Honesty required.