There are moments I swear she’s still here.
Not in ways that make sense. Not in the framed memories or the familiar scent of her perfume that lingers on my skin, tricking my perception into believing she’s standing beside me again. Not in the song that cues itself up at the exact moment I need it, offering just enough to keep me from folding in this endless poker game against an unpredictable life.
She shows up in the breath between thoughts.
In the stillness after hard days.
In the fire I’ve learned to carry.
She’s not haunting—she’s humming.
Low, steady, always just beneath the surface.
Not a memory. A rhythm. A presence.
A pulse.
“She saw the version of me I hadn’t yet earned.
She knew pain could be a platform—instead of a grave.”
I used to think she showed up because that’s what mothers do. But now I know better. She didn’t show up out of obligation. She showed up because she believed in me—so fully, so fiercely—that she never questioned I’d make it. She saw the version of me I hadn’t yet earned. Believed I could make the hard choices. Face truths I was terrified to name.
She knew pain could be a platform—instead of a grave.
She saw the spirit in me that wouldn’t break, even under pressure that felt designed to crush it. And in her own quiet way, she handed me that belief like a torch.
She never called herself strong. She didn’t need to. She lived it.
She stayed when others faded.
She gave when it cost her.
She bent but never broke.
Even in her quiet unraveling, she kept showing up.
And now, I find myself doing the same.
But I’m doing it differently now.
I hold space—but I know where my edges are. I give—but I guard the pieces of me she didn’t know how to protect in herself.
I’m not repeating her legacy. I’m building on it.
I’m not finished—I’m still soft, still forming, still learning how to let life shape me without hardening me.
“Her imperfection didn’t tarnish her strength.
It refined it. It made it real.”
She taught me that. Not with lectures. With presence. With pain. With how she kept showing up for others even when she was exhausted. She didn’t have the language I now use, but she gave me the foundation to build a life that speaks it.
She wasn’t perfect. I’m not writing this to pretend she was.
But her imperfection didn’t tarnish her strength.
It refined it.
It made it real.
Her life taught me that strength doesn’t have to be loud, or clean, or well-timed.
It just has to keep showing up.
Sometimes I wish I could sit across from her and say, “I get it now.”
I get why she stayed soft. Why she kept giving. Why she held on longer than she should have.
I get that it wasn’t weakness—it was a choice.
A kind of courage most people never see because they’re too busy calling it naïve.
I get it because I’m living it now, on my terms.
With boundaries. With clarity.
But with the same wide-open heart.
It’s been nearly seven years.
And the grief hasn’t gone.
It’s just changed shape.
It lives inside me now—quiet, constant.
But louder than the ache is this knowing:
she never really left.
She’s in every part of me that refuses to quit.
In every truth I speak.
In every space I hold.
“She’s not just gone.
She’s the reason I keep going.”
I feel her when I rise.
When I speak what needs to be said.
When I choose peace instead of performance.
I wear her voice when mine trembles.
Her steadiness when I reach out to grab the reins of my fear and can’t stop my hands from shaking.
Her belief in me like breath I didn’t know I was holding.
And somewhere, I know she’s still watching—smiling not because she’s surprised, but because she knew all along.
She didn’t show up in my life’s biggest moments to save me.
She met me there because she was already there—waiting for me to arrive at the place she always believed I’d reach.
She didn’t doubt the outcome.
She trusted the journey.
And she trusted me to walk it.
I’m not brave because I had to overcome her.
I’m brave because of what she gave me—imperfect, raw, quiet strength.
I’m not strong in contrast to her limitations.
I’m strong because she lived a life that taught me how to carry pain with grace, how to stay open when it hurts, how to lead without needing applause.
I didn’t rise to undo her.
I rose to continue her.
Not because of how I’ve evolved but because of how I took the pieces of her—her blood, her sweat, her tears—parts of her that were already shattered, and shaped those into the grit I would need to keep moving forward even when I was afraid it would mean I’d fail.
Even when I feared the pain would bring more grief.
And each time I found myself up against something that felt impossible but faced it anyway, it was because I took those scattered pieces of her soul and kept reshaping them into the strength I needed to make it through the chaos and come out on the other side.
Not without crying.
Not without working for it.
Not without shedding some blood.
Not without doubting I could.
But as a version of me strong enough to look back and see the beauty in the struggle—because it’s like watching my evolution in real time.
My life is unfolding right before my eyes, and each step brings the next stretch of ground I risk standing on, never fully knowing if it will hold the weight I bring with me.
It’s honoring her in the most grounded way: not as a flawless figure, but as the imperfect, compassionate force who taught me how to light the fire myself—so I’d never have to be afraid of losing the flame.
She’s not just gone.
She’s the reason I keep going.
And now that I’ve stepped into the space she saw for me before I ever could, I finally understand:
Living courageously was never in spite of her.
It was because of her.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
I wrote this for my mom, but it’s also for anyone who’s ever felt the kind of grief that transforms you. This is about the strength we inherit from the people we love, even after they’re gone, and how their presence shapes who we become. If these words speak to you, share them with someone who needs to feel seen in their own grief.