Dear Mama…I Still Need My Mama

Dear Mama,

I woke up this morning missing my mom.

Not just thinking about her. Not simply remembering her.

Missing her.

That deep, aching kind of missing when you would give just about anything to hear someone's voice one more time.

And the funny thing is, I couldn't figure out why today.

Then I remembered.

I'm turning 56 this week. Thursday to be exact.

FIFTY-SIX!

How in the world did that happen?

And suddenly, my mind went somewhere I hadn't expected.

Fifty-six years ago, my mom was alive.

She was carrying me. Waiting for me. Preparing for my arrival.

My dad was alive, too.

They were getting ready to meet their little girl.

ME.

And here I am, almost 56 years later, wishing I could sit down with both of them for just one more afternoon.

Oh, what I wouldn't give.

I would tell them about my boys. About my dancing. About all the things I've learned and all the things I'm still trying to figure out.

I would ask questions.

I would listen to their stories.

And I would probably just sit there for a while, soaking up the beautiful, ordinary feeling of being their daughter again.

Because here's something nobody really tells you about growing older without your parents.

You never stop being their little girl.

You can be almost 56 years old. You can raise three boys, build a career, teach hundreds of children, and navigate more of life's unexpected twists and turns than you ever imagined.

You can be the person everyone comes to for help.

The one who listens.

The one who encourages.

The one who holds it all together.

And still, some mornings, you just want your mom.

And your dad.

Not because you need them to solve your problems.

But because sometimes you want to be the one who gets taken care of.

The little girl who could crawl into a lap and let somebody else carry the weight of the world for a little while.

At almost 56 years old, I still need my mom and dad.

And I miss them.

Terribly.

The other day, I had one of those days.

You know the kind.

I woke up with a million things I could do, but I felt like I was walking through mud.

No motivation. No enthusiasm. No desire to tackle any of the things waiting for me.

And because I'm me, I immediately started feeling guilty.

Lazy, even.

Never mind that I had taught a client, fixed the garage power, cleaned up the kitchen, and gone to the grocery store.

Apparently, that wasn't enough.

So you know what I did?

I ate queso and binge-watched Felicity.

Yep.

Queso. Felicity. And absolutely no grand accomplishments.

And you know what?

I think it was exactly what I needed.

Because I'm beginning to understand something about grief.

It doesn't always announce itself with tears.

Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.

Sometimes it steals your motivation.

Sometimes it shows up as a heaviness you can't quite explain.

And sometimes, when life finally gets quiet, you realize just how much your heart has been carrying.

Maybe I wasn't lazy. Maybe I was just tired in a place that sleep couldn't fix.

And perhaps I needed to stop expecting so much of myself for one afternoon.

Oh, Mama.

Life is something, isn't it?

Because here's the other thing.

I LOVE being alive.

I really do.

I love the laughter. The friendships. The unexpected adventures. The children I get to teach. The people I get to love.

I love watching my three boys grow into their own lives.

And if God gives me another 55 years with a body that can move and a mind that can remember, well, SIGN ME UP!

I want to watch my boys thrive.

I want to see who they become and perhaps meet the children they may someday have.

I want more ordinary mornings, more celebrations, more laughter.

More LIFE.

And isn't that something?

I can miss the people who are gone and still be wildly in love with the life I have.

There's that AND again.

I can be grateful for another birthday AND wish my parents were here to celebrate it.

I can be excited about the future AND ache for the past.

I can be a strong, capable, grown woman AND still want my mom.

And apparently, I can spend an afternoon eating queso and watching television AND still be a perfectly worthwhile human being.

Imagine that.

Maybe that's one of the gifts of getting older.

Realizing that life doesn't have to be one thing or the other.

We can hold joy and sorrow in the same heart.

We can be grateful and grieving.

We can miss yesterday without missing out on today.

And maybe we can stop apologizing for being human.

So as I get ready to turn 56, I'm making a little birthday wish.

I want to keep living.

Really living.

I want to keep dancing, teaching, learning, laughing, and loving. I want to watch my boys become all they're meant to be. I want to keep finding beauty in ordinary days.

And oh, how I wish my mom could be here to see it.

Because if I could sit across from her today, there is so much I would tell her.

Mom, you would LOVE knowing how much I love teaching dance.

Not just the dancing itself, but the children. The relationships. The opportunity to help another human being feel seen, loved, and worthy.

And you know what, Mom?

I think I learned that from you.

You had a servant's heart.

You showed up for people. You loved them. You helped them.

And goodness gracious, did you ever pray for them!

People called on you to pray because they knew you would.

You were a prayer warrior.

And I think that desire to pour into other people, to help them through their struggles, to make them feel loved, was a seed you planted in me long before I even knew what you were planting.

And then there's my faith.

Oh, Mom. I wish I could tell you about my Two Chairs.

Every morning, I sit down and spend time with God.

Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I ramble on about absolutely everything happening in my life.

And sometimes I just sit.

And the funny thing is, I think I learned that from you, too.

All those years of watching you sit in your chair praying your rosary.

I didn't realize it then, but I was watching a woman make room for God in her everyday life.

Our quiet times look different, Mom.

But I think the seeds of mine were planted while I watched yours.

And I wish I could tell you how much that has meant to me.

Because life has brought some things I never saw coming.

There have been hurts and heartbreaks and moments when I honestly didn't know how I would find my way through.

But I had my faith.

The faith you helped plant.

And somehow, through all those difficult seasons, I carried a little piece of you with me.

You didn't just teach me how to pray, Mom. You showed me where to turn when life got hard.

And I am better for it.

Oh, and Mom, you'll be happy to know I inherited your work ethic!

Now, I know you never worked outside our home, but goodness, did you WORK.

You weren't afraid of hard work, and neither am I.

I learned that from you.

Unfortunately, I did NOT inherit your enthusiasm for cleaning.

I mean, people could practically eat off our garage floor when you were alive.

THE GARAGE FLOOR, Mom!

Mine? Well, let's just say I inherited your servant's heart, not your cleaning supplies.

We can't have everything. 😂

But here's what I really wish I could tell you.

Mom, you are still here.

Not in the way I want you to be.

Not in the way that would let me pick up the phone and hear your voice or wrap my arms around you one more time.

But you're here in the things I love.

You're here when I walk into a dance studio and see a child who needs a little extra encouragement.

You're here when someone calls because they're hurting and need somebody to listen.

You're here when I get up and go to work, even when I'm tired.

And you're here in the quiet of the morning when I sit in my Two Chairs and talk to God.

All those ordinary days when I thought you were simply being my mom, you were teaching me how to live.

And isn't that something?

We spend so much of our lives wondering what kind of legacy we're going to leave behind.

And sometimes we forget that a legacy isn't always something grand.

Sometimes it's a woman sitting quietly in a chair, praying her rosary.

Sometimes it's showing up for someone who needs help.

Sometimes it's working hard without expecting applause.

Sometimes it's loving people so well that long after you're gone, they find themselves loving others in the very same way.

So, Mom, as I turn 56, I want you to know something.

I still need you.

I still miss you.

And I would give just about anything for one more afternoon together.

But I also want to thank you.

For the life you gave me.

For the faith you planted.

For the example you set.

And for all the beautiful little pieces of you that I am still discovering in myself.

I hope that as I continue to grow older, I keep becoming more of the woman you taught me to be.

And I hope that one day, when my own boys look back on their lives, they recognize a few little pieces of me in the way they love, work, and care for others.

Because maybe that's how love keeps going.

From one generation to the next.

From one heart to another.

From one chair to two.

And maybe that's one of the most beautiful gifts a mom can leave behind.

Not just memories of how she loved us, but a lifetime of knowing how to love because she did.

Happy almost 56th birthday to me.

And thank you, Mom, for helping me become me.

With love,

Amy ❤️