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 ❤️

Dear Little Girl…Your Limp Is Proof You’ve Been With God

Genesis 32

Dear Little Girl,

Maybe you've been apologizing for the way you walk.

Maybe you've spent years wishing you could go back to who you were before the heartbreak… before the grief… before the betrayal… before the disappointment.

You keep asking God to take away the limp.

But what if the limp isn't proof that you're broken?

What if it's proof you've been with Him?

When Jacob wrestled with God, he didn't walk away unchanged.

He walked away with a limp.

For years, I thought healing meant walking as if nothing had ever happened.

I thought one day my mom's death wouldn't catch in my throat.

That birthdays wouldn't ache.

That I wouldn't instinctively reach for the phone to tell her something wonderful.

I thought healing meant the limp would disappear.

But that's not what God has done.

Instead...

He taught me how to walk differently.

And maybe that's the greater miracle.

My grief is still real.

I still miss my mom.

I probably always will.

But the limp no longer tells me only what I've lost.

It reminds me of Who carried me through it.

I've noticed another limp too.

There was a time in my life when I needed everyone to like me.

I became a chameleon.

I would change who I was depending on who stood in front of me.

I said yes when I wanted to say no.

I laughed when something wasn't funny.

I drank because I wanted to belong.

I even made choices that weren't true to who God created me to be because I was afraid of being left out.

I was constantly chasing acceptance.

Today...

I don't do that anymore.

I don't chase.

I don't change myself to fit the room.

Not because I've become hard.

Because God has made me secure.

That doesn't mean everyone understands me.

It doesn't mean everyone agrees with me.

It doesn't even mean everyone likes me.

It simply means I know whose I am.

And that changes the way I walk.

Jacob's limp wasn't a punishment.

It was a reminder.

Every step he took whispered,

"I met God there."

Maybe your limp looks different than mine.

Maybe it's grief.

Maybe it's betrayal.

Maybe it's illness.

Maybe it's the child you're praying for.

Maybe it's the marriage you're fighting to rebuild.

Maybe it's a dream that never came true.

Whatever it is...

Don't be ashamed of the places life changed the way you walk.

Those very places may be where God met you most deeply.

Sweet girl,

Some people will only see your limp.

God sees the woman who refused to let go.

The woman He carried.

The woman He changed.

And one day, when you look back, you'll realize something beautiful.

You aren't walking like you used to.

Not because life didn't leave its mark.

But because God did.

Prayer

Father,

Thank You for meeting me in the places I never would have chosen to go.

Thank You for carrying me through grief, disappointment, and seasons that changed me forever.

When I'm tempted to hide my limp or wish it away, remind me that You are often doing Your deepest work in the places that still feel tender.

Help me stop chasing acceptance and start resting in the security of being Yours.

Teach me to walk with confidence—not because my life has been easy, but because You have been faithful.

Amen.

Journal Prompt

Where has life changed the way you walk?

What if, instead of seeing that place as evidence that you're broken, you began seeing it as evidence that God has been faithfully walking beside you all along?

Dear Little Girl…The Chair Before Mine

Dear Little Girl,

Before there were Two Chairs...there was one.

Today would have been my mom’s 90th birthday.

For My Mom on What Would Have Been Her 90th Birthday

And today, I finally understood where my own chair began.

Ninety Years Old!

How has it been almost ten years since we said goodbye?

Some days it feels like a lifetime ago.

Other days, I still find myself reaching for the phone at three o'clock.

Because for years, that's when we talked.

Almost every day.

You would be sitting in your prayer chair, rosary in hand, looking out the window at the children walking home from school. You loved watching them. You prayed for them, even if you didn't know their names.

I can still picture you there.

My Mom’s Prayer Chair….legacy of faith.

And I don't think there's been a single day since you've been gone that you haven't crossed my mind.

They say time heals.

I think time softens.

The ache isn't as sharp as it once was, but love has a way of leaving fingerprints that never disappear.

Maybe that's why the saying is true...

The greater the grief, the greater the love story was.

And ours was a beautiful one.

Today is another beautiful day in our family.

It's Alex Foley's wedding.

On your birthday.

He didn't even realize it until I told him.

He smiled the biggest smile.

And all I could think was...

Mom would have loved this.

Yesterday I found myself wondering...

What if God let you come to the wedding for just five minutes?

I can see it so clearly.

You'd walk in wearing that dress you loved so much—the one you wore to Robin's wedding.

Your beautiful red hair.

Your rosy cheeks.

Your little nose.

Your pink lipstick.

Those sparkling blue eyes that somehow smiled before the rest of your face did.

I miss this little firecracker!

You wouldn't rush.

You'd simply stand there for a moment...

taking all of us in.

Then I think you'd smile and say,

"Heaven is more beautiful than you can possibly imagine."

"Trust Him."

“Keep Praying…”

You always trusted Him.

Every single day.

You sat in your prayer chair with that worn prayer pad—yes, I still have it—and faithfully prayed through every name on your list.

People counted on your prayers.

Dad used to laugh and say,

"Your mom has the direct connection."

I believed him.

I still do.

One of the last conversations we had was in the ICU.

I asked if you were scared.

You folded your hands in your lap, looked at me, and quietly said,

"Sure...but we all have to do it."

At the time, that answer unsettled me.

I didn't want my mom to be afraid.

But today...

I think if you could speak to me now, you'd smile and say,

"Don't be afraid, my angel."

That's what you always called me.

Your angel.

I miss hearing that.

I miss your blue eyes.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of them in Graeme's face, and for just a second...

it's like seeing you again.

I see you in other places too.

I see you in my heart for forgiveness.

In my love for people.

In my compassion.

In my desire to pray before I panic.

And then, as I sat here writing this letter...

I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.

You had a prayer chair…

I have Two Chairs…

I always thought…my Two Chairs were born out of my own heartbreak.

Out of losing you.

Out of losing my marriage.

Out of learning to trust God in the hardest seasons of my life.

But maybe...

they began long before that.

Maybe they began with a little girl watching her mother faithfully return to the same chair every day to meet with God.

You planted seeds you never got to see bloom.

Those seeds carried me through your death.

They carried me through betrayal.

They carried me through grief.

They carried me back to hope.

And now they are carrying other people too.

You never knew your faithful prayers would become someone else's healing.

That's your legacy.

Not because you wrote a book.

Not because you stood on stages.

Not because the world knew your name.

Because you quietly showed up to meet with God every single day.

And a little girl was watching.

Mom...

You taught me about prayer.

You taught me about forgiveness.

You taught me about serving others.

You taught me what compassion looks like.

You taught me to keep showing up when life hurts.

You taught me that faith isn't built in extraordinary moments.

It's built in ordinary, faithful ones.

Fifty years from now, I hope people remember you as the redhead with the faithful prayer chair.

The woman who believed God heard every prayer she whispered.

The prayer warrior.

Her final prayer list…..

The cook who made everyone feel at home.

The mom whose greatest sermon wasn't something she preached...

It was the life she lived.

And today, on your birthday in Heaven, I hope you're celebrating with Dad.

With your family.

And if you're with my baby...

Would you hold that little one close for me?

Tell them how deeply they are loved.

Tell them their mama thinks about them often.

And one day...

We'll all be together again.

Until then...

Know this.

Because you loved me...

I am okay.

I am better than okay.

I am whole.

Love,

The little girl who finally realized her faith began in the chair before hers.

Dear Little Girl…For the Baby I Never Held

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years since I said hello and goodbye in the same season.

Every year around this time, I find myself sitting in the strange collision of two sentences:

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Death Day.

What a strange place to visit year after year.

A place where love and grief sit side by side.

A place where I celebrate a life I never got to hold and mourn a child I never got to know.

It's also a place that can be hard to explain.

Unless you've walked this road, it's difficult to understand. There is a sacred sisterhood made up of women who carried babies they never got to raise. It is a club none of us wanted to join, yet somehow the women in it understand one another without many words.

We know what it means to love someone we barely met.

We know what it means to miss someone whose face we never saw.

And we know what it means to carry both grief and hope in the same heart.

I still don't know if you were a boy or a girl.

And if I'm being honest, I still wonder.

Would you have had blue eyes like your daddy?

Would you have loved sports like Graeme?

Would you have been creative like JP?

Would you have been driven like Will?

Would you have loved dance like me?

Would you have had my laugh? My stubborn streak? My tender heart?

Or would you have marched to the beat of your own drum and surprised all of us?

Sometimes I imagine a little girl in a tiny tutu twirling through heaven.

Other times I picture a little boy running through fields, laughing and exploring.

The truth is, I don't know.

But I love you all the same.

I think that's one of the hardest things for people to understand about losing a baby.

Love doesn't wait for a birth certificate.

It doesn't wait for first words or first steps.

Love began the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, that love remains.

I remember the day I found out you were gone.

Some memories fade with time.

That one never has.

I remember driving to the hospital.

I remember exiting Walnut Hill.

I remember riding the elevator.

I remember the ultrasound technician smiling.

And I remember watching that smile disappear.

"I am so sorry," she said. "There is no heartbeat."

Those words changed everything.

I remember tears streaming down my face.

I remember mascara streaked across my cheeks.

I remember walking through a world that suddenly looked exactly the same while feeling completely different.

I remember hoping they were wrong.

Praying they were wrong.

Believing a miracle might happen.

I didn't want to let you go.

I wanted one more chance.

One more heartbeat.

One more sonogram.

One more miracle.

But it never came.

And so I joined a club I never wanted to belong to.

The club of mothers whose babies live in heaven.

Years later, I learned my Grandma Foley belonged to that club too.

Nobody really talked about it.

I don't even know if all of my siblings know.

By the time I lost you, she was already gone, and I felt very alone.

Because here's what people don't always understand:

I knew you.

I carried you.

I heard your heartbeat.

You heard my voice.

You were real.

And you still are.

If you're reading this and you're part of that club too, I want you to hear me:

You are still a mother.

From conception to death, you are still a mother.

Even if you never held your baby.

Even if you never got pictures.

Even if nobody else remembers.

You are still a mother.

And I am still your mama.

One of my favorite memories happened after you were gone.

Your brother JP was sitting on the top bunk one night and decided you needed a name.

"Trece," he said.

Number three.

The third child.

I don't know if I would've chosen that name myself, but I loved the heart behind it.

I loved that your brother already loved you enough to name you.

And somehow that small moment has stayed with me for seventeen years.

Today, I still wonder about you.

I wonder if you've met my mom and dad.

I wonder if you've met Grandma Foley and the baby she never got to raise.

I wonder what your laugh sounds like.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold you.

I wonder what you smell like.

I wonder if you know how often I still think about you.

I wonder if you know that every June, I remember.

I remember the loss.

But I also remember the love.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Not pretending it didn't matter.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry both.

The grief.

And the gratitude.

The ache.

And the hope.

Because after all these years, that's what I feel most.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope that asks God to change the past.

But the quiet hope that trusts He is holding what I cannot.

The hope that believes heaven is real.

The hope that believes I will know you when I see you.

The hope that believes love does not end at death.

So today, Baby Berry, I want you to know something.

I never forgot you.

Not for one year.

Not for one day.

Not for one moment.

You are still part of our story.

You are still part of our family.

And you are still deeply loved.

I loved you the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, I love you still.

Wildly.

Always have.

Always will.

Love,

Your Mama on Earth

Anger, Tinsel, and 1000 Why's

More thoughts from my journal…
I said I would keep writing.
So here I am.
Still grieving. Still healing. Still trying to find light in the middle of all this fog.

July 17, 2025

I don’t know anymore, God.
Today I woke up weepy. My Oura app told me my HRV was low. “Your mind or body has been under strain for a while.”
I screamed at it: “It’s death! It’s Fucking DEATH!”

I guess that’s anger. Or exhaustion. Or both.
I’m tired of the theology people keep handing out like tissues.
I know You didn’t cause this.
I know You weep with us.
I know I won’t know why.

I don’t need reminders today. I need something real.

And yet… the same God I screamed at let me see flickers of good:
In a sash.
In a blanket.
In a quiet dinner from friends.
In mermaid tinsel for two girls.
In a young Mystic counselor choosing pink to honor her campers.

That moment with Nola—putting sparkle in her hair, loving her without needing words—felt like purpose.
It didn’t fix anything. But it reminded me that love is still here.
And that maybe it’s okay to scream and believe at the same time.

I’m still asking why.
I probably will for a while.
But today, I’m clinging to the helpers, the light, and the tinsel.

That might be all I’ve got right now.
But maybe… that’s enough.