It has been 23 years since my mom passed away.

I am 36 years old now, which means I have lived more of my life without my mother than with her. She was only physically with me for about 12 years, but the impact she had on my life far exceeds the time we were given together.

My mom fought cancer for six years. The reality is that the medical advancements available in the 1990s and early 2000s were very different than they are today. I am at peace with her passing. That peace is real. And still, it hurts.

Peace does not mean something doesn’t hurt. Acceptance does not erase longing. It just means you stop fighting what is true.

Because I lost my mom so young, for a long time my relationship with her existed primarily through grief. That was the lens. The loss was louder than the woman. And that makes sense when someone is taken from you while you are still a child.

As I got older and continued doing my own personal work, I realized that grief was a significant piece of my healing, but it wasn’t the only piece. It felt more like the missing puzzle piece. I had already done a lot of work on myself, but this was something that still needed attention.

I wanted to know her.

Not just as my mom, but as the woman she was while she was here. The woman who lived, loved, worked, struggled, laughed, and showed up.

So I started asking questions.

I talked to my dad. He told me stories about my mom from college, from when they met, from when they were married. I learned things about her that I never could have known as a child. I had the privilege of seeing her through the eyes of someone who loved her deeply as a partner, not just as a parent.

I also spent time around a lot of my mom’s friends. Many of them are friends she shared with my dad, people they met in college and remained close with over the years. They told me stories. They shared memories. They said kind things, like how they see her in me, how I remind them of her, how I look like her.

Those moments stayed with me more than they probably realized.

I have pictures of her. I have her journals. I’ve read her words, written during some of the hardest moments of her life. I got to sit with her thoughts, her fears, her strength, her honesty. I got to know my mom not just as someone I lost, but as a woman who lived.

And through getting to know her that way, I came to understand myself more clearly too. I saw where my heart comes from. Where my strength comes from. Where my tenderness comes from.

Sometimes I literally look at myself in the mirror and I see my mom. And I smile.

That was the point where my relationship with her stopped being defined only by grief and started being rooted in love, memory, and understanding.

What I miss now isn’t confusion or unanswered questions. I miss the possibilities. I miss her voice. Her laugh. I miss the idea of her sitting in my house, seeing my life as it is now, knowing the woman I became. I miss that she cannot physically be here with her grandchildren.

She has three grandchildren now. My niece and my two nephews. When I am with them, I see my mom everywhere.

The traits I inherited from my mom are the same traits I see living through them. Her sweetness. Her tenderness. Her way of loving. When I see my niece comfort her brothers, rubbing their backs and kissing them when they cry, I recognize that love immediately. I know where it comes from.

There are moments when I’m with them that I get emotional, not because something is wrong, but because the love in the room feels so full. Sometimes I wish she were there to see it. And sometimes it feels like she already is. Like there is just a strong presence of love around us, holding all of it together.

Both of my parents modeled love that way. They were present. They were consistent. They were outwardly affectionate. They showed me that love is not just something you feel or say. It is something you do. Those values live in me now. They shape how I love, how I show up, how I care for others.

My mom did all of this while being very sick. While working. While carrying responsibility. While raising children. She did the best she could, and she did a damn good job. Even in the hardest seasons of her life, she stayed present.

I don’t have videos of her. I don’t have recordings of her voice. I have pictures, memories, and the imprint of who she was. There are times I wish I had videos or recordings, especially now that it’s so easy to capture those things. I wish I could hear her voice again, or have something I could show my niece and nephews as they get older.

On February 3, 2003, the day I learned my mom was going to die, she held my hand in the hospital and told me she loved me. She told me she was proud of me and that she would always be proud of me. The next morning on the 4th, she passed away. That moment changed my life forever.

I was a headstrong kid. I said things I didn’t mean. I wasn’t always kind or grateful. But my mom loved me anyway. Securely. Unconditionally.

That kind of love shapes a person for life.

If there is one thing I know with certainty, it is this. I am the woman I am today because of the love I received early. Because of the example my parents set. Because of the heart my mom had and passed on.

Love & miss you forever, Mom.

Xo Jessica