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A Song, A Smell, A Moment: When Remembering My Mom Sneaks In
Grief doesn’t always show up on schedule.
It doesn’t wait for anniversaries or holidays. Sometimes, it sneaks in through the back door—like when I’m in the kitchen around the holidays, pulling out a recipe card stained with years of memories, and the smell of peanut butter cookies fills the room. Or when I’m driving with the radio on and a Prince song comes on out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m not on a road in 2025—I’m a kid again, riding shotgun with my mom, her voice cutting through the chorus like she owned it.
These moments hit me harder than I expect. Not because I’m stuck in the past. But because even now—years after she passed—remembering my mom has a way of showing up in the ordinary.
She’s in the music that shaped me.
She’s in the way I like to make people laugh when things get too heavy.
She’s in the little dance I catch myself doing when the food tastes just right.
I don’t always realize how much she gave me until one of those memories hits. And then I see it clearly: She left more than memories. She left pieces of herself tucked into who I’ve become.
It’s strange how someone so complicated can still be so deeply loved. How someone who didn’t always know how to show up perfectly still managed to leave a lasting impact.
This isn’t a story about a perfect mother.
It’s about a real one.
One who was loud, funny, stubborn, gifted, and flawed.
And as I reflect on her life and legacy, I’m realizing she gave me more than I ever thanked her for.
Maybe this is my way of remembering my mom—not just as she was, but for all she poured into me.
Loud, Bright, and Unforgettable: Remembering My Mom in Full Color
My mom wasn’t someone who blended into the background. She filled every room she walked into—with sound, with laughter, with some wild story that only she could tell the way she told it. You didn’t just notice her—you felt her.
She was loud in the best way. Her laugh could bounce off walls and turn heads. And when she was excited about something? She had this signature voice—what I call her “we just got chocolate cake” voice—that made even the most ordinary moment feel electric.
She was funny. Not just “ha-ha” funny, but quick-witted, off-the-cuff, hit-you-with-a-one-liner-before-you-even-knew-what-hit-you funny. Joking was her way of connecting, of lightening the load. She could find humor in the middle of a mess—and often did.
She was impulsive. If she wanted something, she went after it. Sometimes that meant chasing the wrong things. Sometimes it meant taking big risks without thinking it through. But that fire—that restless, do-it-my-way energy—was always there.
She was passionate. About music, about food, about people. Garth Brooks, Prince, Kiss—those weren’t just artists to her. They were the soundtrack to her life. I can still see her bobbing her head, eyes closed, doing a little dance while chewing food that made her proud. That was her: completely in the moment when the moment was good.
And when it came to cooking? She didn’t just make meals. She poured love into them. Peanut butter cookies, country fried steak—those weren’t just favorites. They were love languages. She fed people to show she cared, and you knew it from the first bite.
She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. Full of color and contradiction and warmth and fight.
And when I’m remembering my mom now, I don’t picture some polished version of her. I see this woman. Loud. Bright. Unapologetically herself.
And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
When Work Became Purpose: Remembering My Mom’s Breakthrough
For most of her life, my mom worked hard. Real hard. She spent years waiting tables—on her feet for long shifts, managing rude customers, chasing tips. And she was good at it. Friendly. Sharp. The kind of waitress who’d remember your drink, your story, and probably what your kids were up to.
But something changed when she got into advertising sales.
I remember the shift like a light turning on. She went from clocking in to showing up. From serving to selling. From making it work to finally walking in purpose. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t just have a job—she had a calling.
It was like she found her lane. All those years of learning how to read people, connect fast, and speak with confidence? They weren’t wasted. They prepared her for this. Selling ad space in a local newspaper and later in a magazine gave her a sense of value she hadn’t tasted before. She wasn’t just good at it—she was one of the best in town.
You could see it in the way she talked about her work. Her energy was different. She’d organize her media kits with care, rehearse her pitch, map out her leads, and visualize the sale. She rang a bell when she closed a deal. She’d beam when clients renewed. It was like a whole new version of her emerged—one that had always been there, waiting for the right opportunity.
That job didn’t just give her a paycheck. It gave her a reason to get up in the morning. It made her feel smart, respected, and capable.
And now, when I’m remembering my mom, this is one of the moments I come back to: when she found her spark again and let it shine.
Work didn’t define her. But for a while, it helped her remember who she was.
The Flaws We Didn’t Know How to Talk About
There were things about my mom that we didn’t talk about—not because we didn’t see them, but because we didn’t always know how to say them out loud.
She struggled with her health. She carried extra weight for most of her life, and it wasn’t just about food—it was about comfort, coping, and years of stress that piled on top of her body and spirit. When she got gastric surgery in the early 2000s, we thought it might give her a fresh start. But it didn’t go like we hoped. There were complications, more surgeries, more pain… and eventually, the pills.
Pain meds. Anxiety meds. Sometimes more than she was prescribed. It didn’t turn her into someone we didn’t recognize, but it did dim her spark. There were seasons where her eyes were tired, her mood was flat, and the vibrant woman we loved seemed buried under a fog. It hurt to see. It was confusing to name. And most of the time, we just didn’t.
She could also be impulsive. Whether it was a big decision or a small one, there were times when logic took a backseat to emotion. She led with her heart, which made her magnetic—but it also made some of her choices hard to understand.
But here’s the thing: I don’t list these struggles to air out her flaws. I name them because they were part of her story. And if I’m remembering my mom truthfully, I have to remember it all—the good, the hard, the things we celebrated, and the things we didn’t have words for.
She wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But she was real, and she was trying. And sometimes love means holding space for both the beauty and the brokenness without needing to explain either away.
She Showed Her Love in the Kitchen
If my mom had a love language, it was food.
She didn’t always have the words to say how she felt. Affection could feel awkward. Big heart-to-heart talks weren’t her thing. But when she cooked—you knew. You could taste it in every bite.
Her peanut butter cookies were legendary. Soft in the middle, crisp around the edges, with that little fork-cross on top like a signature. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, I still make them. I bake hundreds of them, slowly, intentionally—because it’s one of the few ways I still feel connected to her. As the smell fills the kitchen, I can almost hear her humming to herself, doing that little dance she did when she knew something tasted good.
And then there was my birthday.
Every year, I got to choose the meal. It was the one day where I didn’t have to just eat what was on the table—I got to ask for what I wanted. And I always picked the same thing: country-fried steak with white gravy and rice.
It wasn’t the easiest meal to make. It took time. Effort. Mess. But she never complained. She made it like it was an honor. And I think, in some way, it was. It was her way of saying, “You matter.” Not with speeches, but with a plate.
Remembering my mom often means remembering those meals—not just for the taste, but for what they represented. They were her way of loving us, of nurturing us, even when words felt clumsy.
Looking back, I realize how much she gave through those meals. Not just food, but herself. Her time. Her attention. Her pride.
And I also see how much I learned from it. That love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s served in a quiet bowl of something warm, handed to you by someone who just wants you to feel cared for.
That’s what her food did. It cared for us—even when she didn’t know how else to show it.
The Rock Band, the Car Rides, and Her Soundtrack on Repeat
If you want to understand my mom, you have to start with the music.
She wasn’t quiet about her favorites. Garth Brooks? Thunder Rolls on full blast while she cleaned the apartment. Prince? Every single song—she adored him. KISS? She didn’t just like the music—she loved the whole thing. The face paint, the theatrics, the fire-breathing rockstars. She even took us to a KISS concert when I was in high school. I don’t remember every detail of the show, but I remember her lighting up. That mattered more.
Our soundtrack wasn’t polished or predictable. It was wild and loud and full of life—just like her. One minute it was Joan Jett’s I Love Rock ‘n Roll, the next it was the Grease soundtrack. And yes, we watched Grease every year. I can still hand-jive with the best of them.
Those car rides? Those were our concerts. Windows down, volume up, her head bobbing to the beat. She’d smile, close her eyes a little, and hum along like the whole world had disappeared and it was just her and the music. That was her happy place. And in those moments, I think she forgot her pain. Her stress. Everything weighing her down.
And somehow, music became a bridge between us.
We didn’t always know how to talk about what was hard. But we could sing along to the same song. We could sit in silence with the radio up and let the lyrics do the work. And later, when I picked up the bass and joined my own rock band, she came to my gigs. She supported it—not because it was perfect, but because it was part of me.
Remembering my mom through music comes easy. It’s the soundtrack of her joy—and of the way we found connection when nothing else made sense.
I still hear her in the songs.
Why I Tried So Hard to Take Care of Her
From the outside, I was the son. But for most of my life, it felt like I was playing the role of the parent.
My mom was smart. Strong. Capable. But she was also impulsive, emotional, and often overwhelmed by life. And somewhere along the way, without really meaning to, I stepped into the role of the fixer.
I don’t know if it was because I’m naturally responsible, or if it’s because I had to grow up too early. Maybe both. But I always felt this quiet, internal pressure to keep things steady—to help her make better decisions, to guide her through the chaos, to be the solid ground when everything else felt shaky. Sometimes she welcomed it. Sometimes she didn’t. But either way, I carried it.
She didn’t always need fixing—but I often tried anyway. I gave her advice. I drew boundaries. I checked in. And when I couldn’t help, I felt guilty. Like somehow I had failed at a job I never should’ve had.
That reversed dynamic shaped a lot of who I became. I got used to being the one people leaned on. I got used to not asking for help. I got used to thinking that my worth came from being useful, not vulnerable.
And it made our relationship complex.
Because on the one hand, I wanted to feel like her son—just her son. I wanted to be nurtured, encouraged, chosen. But on the other hand, I couldn’t let go of the sense that I had to protect her. That if I didn’t hold things together, they might fall apart.
It wasn’t a burden she placed on me intentionally. It was just how life unfolded.
And even now, long after she’s gone, I still wrestle with that wiring—the part of me that still feels responsible for keeping the people I love from breaking.
Remembering my mom means remembering not just what she gave—but also the roles I took on, even when I didn’t understand why.
Grief, Faith, and What I Know Now
Grief doesn’t follow a straight line. It loops. It fades. It flares back up when you least expect it.
Some days, it’s quiet. Other days, it knocks the wind out of me. But what’s changed the most over time isn’t the intensity—it’s the way I carry it.
When my mom passed, I was heartbroken—but not hopeless. Because even in the mess of our complicated story, I knew one thing for sure: she loved Jesus. And I believe with everything in me that she’s with Him now. Not in pain. Not confused. Not weighed down by all the battles that followed her here.
That’s what gives me peace.
Because here’s the thing—there were things left unsaid. There were things we never got to fix. There were still questions, hurts, misunderstandings. But I don’t believe she carried any of that with her. I believe that in God’s presence, she saw everything clearly. She understood my heart. My intentions. The love I couldn’t always express right. The walls I built trying to protect us both. And I believe she was finally free from needing anything from me—because she was fully whole in Him.
That’s the comfort I come back to.
Not that we tied everything up with a bow.
Not that I did everything perfectly.
But that grace filled the gaps.
Grief still visits. Usually quietly. Sometimes with a memory, a scent, a song. But remembering my mom through the lens of faith gives it a different texture. It’s not just sorrow—it’s sacred.
I don’t just grieve the woman she was.
I thank God for the woman He has now.
And knowing she’s in His hands lets me open mine—letting go a little more each year, while still holding on to what mattered most.
If You’re Grieving Someone Like This…
Maybe your story feels a little like mine.
You loved them—but it wasn’t simple. There were wounds. There were boundaries. There were moments you wished turned out differently. And now that they’re gone, you’re not sure how to hold it all—how to grieve someone who wasn’t perfect, but who still meant the world to you.
If you’re remembering your mom or someone like her, let me say something clearly:
You’re allowed to miss them without rewriting the past.
You don’t have to pretend the hard parts didn’t happen. You don’t have to smooth over the jagged edges to prove that you loved them. Grief—real grief—is big enough to hold both truth and tenderness.
You can cry over what you lost and still acknowledge what was never quite whole.
You can honor them—not by pretending they were flawless, but by remembering the moments that mattered. The meals. The music. The laughter. The effort. The little glimpses of love that broke through, even when everything else was messy.
And you can forgive—even if they’re not here to say sorry.
Forgiveness isn’t letting them off the hook. It’s letting yourself move forward. It’s believing that love can outlast the wounds. It’s trusting that God sees the full story—and that He is big enough to bring peace to places we never could.
So don’t be afraid to grieve honestly.
Let your tears be full of memory, not just pain. Let your love speak louder than regret. Let your story be one of redemption—not because everything was fixed, but because grace showed up anyway.
If you’re remembering your mom and wondering if you’re doing it “right,” you are.
You’re not alone in this.
And you’re not grieving wrong.
You’re just learning how to carry a love that wasn’t easy… but was still real.
Her Legacy Still Lives in Me
I didn’t fully understand my mom’s impact until long after she was gone.
Grief has a way of clearing the fog. And when I look back now—really look—I can see what she left behind in me. It wasn’t a polished legacy. It didn’t come wrapped in perfect memories or easy stories. But it’s there. Woven into who I am.
Remembering my mom now feels less like looking backward and more like tracing her fingerprints across my everyday life.
She gave me boldness.
That loud, fearless, take-up-space kind of presence? I carry some of that. Maybe I’m more reserved in how it shows up—but deep down, I’m not afraid to stand up, speak out, and own who I am. That came from her.
She gave me grit.
She didn’t quit easily. She fought through pain, disappointment, and hardship with a stubborn kind of hope. That same resilience lives in me now. It’s what gets me up early, keeps me moving, helps me push through when I want to quit.
She gave me heart.
Through her food, her music, her laughter—she showed me what it means to love with what you have. To make moments count. To care loudly, even if words don’t always come easy.
And she gave me stories.
Some funny. Some painful. All real. And as I raise my kids, I find myself passing bits of her to them—through the music we play, the meals we make, the values I try to live by. They may never fully know the woman she was, but they’ll feel her legacy… through me.
Remembering my mom isn’t just about grieving who she was. It’s about honoring what she left behind—and letting that shape who I’m still becoming.
I wish she could see the man I’ve become.
But in some ways, I think she does.
And I think she’d be proud—not because I turned out perfect, but because I kept going.
Her life wasn’t easy.
But it mattered.
And I carry that forward—with gratitude.
If you’ve ever wondered what happens after this life—or how to find peace about someone you’ve lost—this post about my mom’s faithmight speak to you. It’s not just about death—it’s about hope, legacy, and the kind of faith that lasts.
If This Resonated, Let’s Stay Connected
If you’ve found comfort, connection, or clarity in this story about remembering my mom, I’d love to keep walking this road together.
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