One Year Without Her: Becoming a Mother After Losing Mine

Today marks one year since my mom passed away from frontotemporal dementia at age 59. They say the first year after losing someone is the hardest, and that grief compounds when it collides with other life transitions simultaneously.

In February, on Valentine's Day, my husband and I discovered we're expecting a baby in October. We felt pure joy and excitement, of course, but candidly, I also felt a little afraid. Reality quickly set in with the awareness that I am about to become a mother in a world where my own mom no longer exists.

Already the cutest thing I've ever seen.

I never imagined how much I would want to hear my mom's voice, or how often I would reach for the phone before remembering I couldn't call. I'm fortunate to have a loving extended family full of grandmothers, aunts, cousins, and friends who have graciously offered their guidance and wisdom. But in moments of uncertainty, there are times I've felt profoundly alone.

February, March, and April were a blur of relentless nausea and morning sickness. I often woke at four or five in the morning already gagging, spending the first hours of each day in the bathroom. I learned that the term "morning sickness" was somewhat of a misnomer as it frequently lasted well into the afternoon and evening, robbing me of my energy and my sense of normalcy.

During those difficult days, I wished desperately for my mom, not even for practical advice, but simply for her presence. Words of support, or the comfort of knowing she had been through this too.

As the oldest of four, I'd watched my mom navigate pregnancy three times. She was a dairy farmer who worked long, physical hours outdoors throughout all four of her pregnancies. From my childhood perspective, she seemed to deal with it all easily, rarely complaining or letting it slow her down. In contrast, I was barely surviving. Maybe she wouldn't have had any advice to offer anyway, but there are moments when you just really need your mom for reasons that transcend logic.

Beyond the support I'll never receive, I grieve the joy she would have felt. She adored children and would have been over the moon about becoming a grandmother. She would have cherished every ultrasound photo, celebrated with us when we learned we're having a boy, and loved him with the unconditional devotion she gave to all of us.

My husband lost his mother in middle school. Many times, I have grieved the fact that our baby will grow up never knowing either of his grandmothers. Early in my pregnancy, I cried when I realized I could give my child anything in the world, except a grandma. I try to reframe it: our families are blessed with many strong women who will love him fiercely, and perhaps those relationships will be all the more precious. I'm genuinely very grateful for all of them. But knowing how special my own relationships with my grandmothers have been throughout my life, I can't help but feel sad knowing what he will miss.

Still, I will raise him steeped in her values, shaped by her example, in the way she taught me to love. She may not be here in person, but her fingerprints will be all over his childhood. When I'm overwhelmed by the loss, I remember that the most important lessons my mom had to offer me about motherhood were taught to me by example: the loving way she cared for our family, the joy she created amidst the routine of our ordinary life, the way she encouraged every interest and hobby we pursued, and the importance she placed on spending time together.

My mom and me on a family cabin trip in 2022.

I am moved knowing that my mom loved me and my siblings as much as I already love our baby. She knew the intensity of it, the certainty that you would do anything for this little person, even when you haven't met them yet. She felt this way for us. Knowing that we were loved this completely is the greatest gift she left behind.

This first year without her has changed how I see grief milestones. Over the past 12 months, my siblings and I have visited the cemetery on Christmas, on her birthday, on Mother's Day, and any opportunity we had in between. Before her death, I never understood why anyone would celebrate an anniversary of loss, it seemed morbid and unnecessarily painful. Now, I understand it differently, as an acknowledgment of survival, a way of saying: I made it through this hardest year, and you remain with me still.

Today, I'm honoring that survival and I'm stepping into motherhood carrying her lessons with me, even as I grieve that she won't be here to witness it.