On the morning of August 12th, two hummingbirds swooped so close to my head I flinched. I was standing in my driveway with my aunt (my mom’s sister) and my uncle. A half hour later we were sitting outside at breakfast, and another hummingbird darted past our table.
It was the four-year anniversary of my mom’s death, and I thought right away: Hi, Mom.
Side note: I know the signs I feel from my mom might not resonate with you. Megan Falley perfectly described this unfortunate reality in a piece recently. But this hummingbird hello felt like Mom to me, and you can’t convince me otherwise.
These hummingbirds surprised me. Not just because it is a bit shocking to have a hummingbird fly right at your face first thing in the morning, but because I hadn’t felt my mom’s presence much for a while. And that hard reality was probably why I had been avoiding my grief as the day of this anniversary approached.
In previous years, I have prepared more for this day, usually making an effort to be with my dad and brother so we can grieve together.
This year, I kind of avoided thinking about it until I had to.
Not that I hadn’t made plans for the day - I had. 10 months ago, I bought tickets to see one of my favorite artists, Rufus du Sol. I saw that the date of the show was the day my mom died, and thought, “well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.” It sounded like a fun way to spend a day.
Then a few weeks before the show, my aunt reached out, saying she and my uncle wanted to stop by on their upcoming road trip. She said they would come the night of August 11th and leave the 12th. I’m not sure if she noticed what day she’d be there, but on my mental calendar, a big spotlight shone on that date.
That spotlight is always there. But sometimes it’s less like a spotlight and more like a sun - it’s bright and unignorable, but I can’t look right at it or get too close or I’ll get hurt.
As the day approached, I had all of the logistics figured out, but none of the emotions. Two days before the show, I finally texted my friend who was going with me to let her know that it was going to be that day. Admitting that to her felt like admitting to myself that it was going to be a hard day and I couldn’t avoid it.
Avoiding my grief isn’t something I like to admit to. I am a huge proponent of staying in touch with your grief and letting it be there when it needs to be. If you try to pretend it doesn’t exist, it will sneak up on you.
A few days before the anniversary, I woke up from a dream. I dreamt I was in a therapy session, but my therapist had a substitute, so it was a new person who didn’t know much about me. They kept asking me questions about things that didn’t feel important to talk about, and eventually I yelled at them, “I NEED TO TALK ABOUT MY MOM!” It’s like my subconscious knew I’d been avoiding the topic but needed to face it head-on. So when I - in real life, not dream land - had therapy just a few hours later, I told my therapist that’s how I needed to spend that session.
I knew talking about it in therapy wouldn’t necessarily feel good… in fact, it would probably make me feel worse in the moment.
Therapy often feels like poking a wound that I forgot was there. We dig into it, look closely at it, so we can actually figure out what it needs in order to heal. Ignoring the wound doesn’t heal it, it leads to it getting infected (ok, this wound metaphor is grossing me out. Let’s move on).
So this anniversary was a wound I was trying to pretend wasn’t there. Because it hurts to actually look at it and be aware of the deep sadness that’s still in there.
It’s there every day. But the anniversary marks the passage of time, which makes it hit differently.
It’s been four years without my mom, and I feel really distant from her.
I didn’t like saying that out loud to my therapist, acknowledging the truth of that statement. I don’t like admitting that I’m kind of used to Mom not being here now. When something big happens in my life, my first instinct is no longer to pick up my phone and call her. When I’m trying to make a decision, I can’t immediately hear what she would say inside my head.
That’s when my therapist connected some dots that really stuck a sharp knife into my grief wound.
Of course your mom feels distant. She doesn’t know this version of you.
OOF.
Four years is a long time. So much can happen. And for me, that feels especially true.
When my mom was alive, she knew me. And a lot of what she knew of me is still true. I’m still her creative, adventurous, awkward daughter who can speak in front of a crowd of thousands of people, but gets anxious calling in a takeout order.
But so much of me has changed.
I’ve come out as queer. I’ve moved to a small town and bought my own home. I’ve entered graduate school to become a therapist. I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer and lost my real boobs. I’ve broken my leg. I’ve broken up with the partner she probably assumed I would marry.
Now, I don’t know exactly what I believe when it comes to an afterlife, but I do believe that my mom is watching me from somewhere and gets to see who I am now. But she doesn’t truly get to know me. She doesn’t get to ask me questions and hear my replies. And I don’t get to see her and know how she would react to this current version of me.
And, as my therapist also pointed out, I don’t know this version of her.
It’s been four years for my mom too. And while I’m sure she’s still my same mom, the loving, caring, ridiculously creative best mom ever, I’m sure she’s different now too. I hope she is. I hope she’s happier.
So it makes sense that I can’t hear her in my mind as clearly now, answering my questions and giving me motherly advice. Because we don’t know each other like we used to.
And I hate that that’s true. But as soon as I admitted that to myself, Mom made sure I knew she was still here. A hello from the hummingbirds.
And she’s found other (less flinch-worthy) ways to say hi in the days since.
Soon after she died, I started seeing 717 (my birthday, July 17th) in a lot of places - clocks, random numbers. It became a small way of feeling her presence, Mom saying she sees me and I’m doing ok. Two days after the anniversary, I drove to my brother’s house, and arrived at 7:17 pm, parked behind a car with 717 on its license plate. There was no way for me to have planned to get there at that time. It’s a four-hour drive from my house to his, and I had gotten stuck in a bunch of traffic. Hi, Mom.
A week later, she took over my Spotify. Earlier in the day, I had been listening to a podcast on my phone. I paused the episode and went about my day. A couple of hours later, I got in my car, and my phone connected automatically. I assumed it would start playing the rest of the podcast. But, no, it started playing a remixed version of “Stand by Me” - her favorite song. Out of all the songs I’ve ever clicked the “like” button on, that was the one my phone chose?! Hi, Mom.
My mom might not know this version of me, but she still knows what I need: her.
When my brother and I were kids, and my parents went on vacation without us, Mom would record books on tape so we could hear her voice reading to us before bed each night. That way, while we knew she was far away, she still felt close.
And maybe because she still wants to prove that she’s the best, most thoughtful mom ever, she’s sending the afterlife version of books on tape, through hummingbirds, clocks, license plates and music. It’s not the same as getting to have a conversation with her, hug her, or see her face, but it’s something. And I’m grateful for that.
And maybe she’s grateful that I’m writing about her, and she’s reading this from wherever she is. Or she’s annoyed that I won’t shut up about her. Either way, Hi, Mom.
If you’re grieving someone or something right now, I wish I could tell you that time makes it hurt less. But that’s not true for me. In some ways, the more time goes by, the more it hurts. But it does change. However it feels today probably isn’t the same way it will feel forever. And knowing that helps me a little bit.
Like that concert I went to on the anniversary date this year. Leading up to it, I thought I might cry through the whole thing, not being able to stop thinking about my mom, because some years, that’s what August 12th has felt like - but that’s not what happened. I ended up having a really great time. I danced my face off (so much that my body was sore the next day…), and for a few hours, it felt like nothing else mattered.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t grieving - I think on that day, my grief needed to move through my body, and I needed to show myself it’s ok to have fun. I let myself be in the moment and didn’t force myself to focus on the bad for 24 hours straight just because of the date on the calendar.
As long as I give my grief room to breathe (aka cry) and don’t avoid it, it’ll find time to let itself out. I don’t always know how it’s going to show up, or what it will feel like, but I guess that’s just how grief works.
It’s been four years without Mom, and my grief still surprises me.
I love this and I resonate so much in so many ways. April will mark my fourth year, and I similarly feel distant from my mom. I love your therapist’s (and your) perspective on this distance. Btw hummingbirds are a huge sign for me, too!