Will I ever go back to the Lauren I was before my mom died? Will she ever exist again? These questions live at the center of my grief. Sometimes they whisper, but mostly they scream.

I’ve spent months trying to understand this version of myself that exists in the after. Before August 5, I was shaped by her, her voice, her laughter, and the way she saw me. So much of who I was came from being her daughter. The way I spoke, the way I cared, the way I carried myself through life.

Now, everything feels different. I’m learning how to breathe again, but it’s a different kind of breath. The kind that feels unfamiliar. I’m learning to ground myself, even when the world feels like it’s still spinning around the moment everything changed. I’m learning what it means to exist in a world that keeps moving forward, even when a part of me wants to stay still.

What scares me most is the thought that every new piece of myself I create pulls me a little bit further away from her. The version of me before was made with my mom’s hands, shaped by her presence, her lessons and her love. The version of me now is being built without her here, and that’s a pain that’s hard to put into words.

I can’t help but think that this is what loss does. It transforms us. Maybe every new part of me I’m building isn’t taking me further from her, but carrying her with me in new ways. Maybe the things I learn now, the strength I find, the person I’m becoming are all still connected to her, just in a different way.

I may never go back to who I was before, but I’m slowly learning that it’s okay. She existed, she mattered, and she still lives inside me.

This is me grieving