There are milestones in grief that no one prepares you for, they tell you they will happen but there is no real preparation for them. I’ve read the books, I’m in the support group, I’ve actively been listening to the people who have been there, but when the moment arrives, when the calendar flips toward a holiday your family used to orbit around, everything shifts. This year, that shift is Thanksgiving. Our first one without my mom.

I’ve been anxious as I feel the day get closer. It’s a quiet kind of fear, not loud, just steady and persistent. It’s the fear of the unknown. What will the day feel like without her? Will the empty space at the table swallow the joy out of the room? Will we laugh? Will we cry? Will we do both at the same time?

I keep reminding myself: the unknown doesn’t get to decide how our day unfolds. I do. We do. I’m trying…..really trying….to stay present. To let each moment come as it is instead of forecasting sadness or preparing for hurt. Grief already takes up enough space; I don’t want to give it the power of anticipation, too.

Still, there’s so much I know I’ll miss.
Like her brownie pie, the one she baked every year without fail. It wasn’t fancy; that wasn’t the point. It was hers. It tasted like comfort, like home, like the kind of love that shows up in the little things. I’ll remember the year she was so determined to make sure the pie was done that she cut a little triangle right out of the middle to “test” it. I’ll remember the laughter around the table when she lifted the tinfoil and revealed her masterpiece missing its center. And I’ll remember how that tiny, imperfect triangle was just so her.

And then there was her presence, the part of her I’ll miss in a way I can’t quite put into words. Quiet, observant, steady. She’d sit back and watch us with that soft smile, wine in hand, eyes sparkling as conversations overlapped and tangled around the room. Her whole face would brighten when the kids chimed in. She never needed to be the center of attention; she just wanted to be where her family was. And I think that’s what I’ll miss most: the way she witnessed us. The way she made us feel seen simply by being there.

This is me grieving.