One Year Without My Mom

One Year Without My Mom

Living Real Aloha – From Codependency to Authenticity
By Heidi Coleman

I didn’t know what this year would look like — I only knew it would hurt.

There’s a kind of silence that shows up when someone you love is gone. Not just in the room, but in your bones. I’ve learned that grief isn’t linear, polite, or predictable. It arrives like waves — sometimes crashing, sometimes lapping at your feet when you thought the tide was out.

I’ve missed her laugh.
Her steadiness.
The way she always knew when to call.
I’ve missed being someone’s daughter in that way.

But I’ve also met parts of myself I didn’t know were waiting.

Grief cracked open places in me I had numbed for years. It made me honest. Softer. More present.
It asked me to stop performing and just be.

In many ways, this year was the beginning of Living Real Aloha — not as a brand or cultural concept, but as a necessity. I didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

This past weekend, I marked the one-year anniversary of losing my mom. It unfolded in full-circle moments, quiet rituals, and some unexpected grace.

On Friday, I ran into my old boss at the grocery store — the one I hadn’t seen since I left my job to care for Mom. Everything I had to say to him had lived in my head for a year. But when I saw him, I didn’t say a word.

I just hugged him.

That hug came from someplace beyond words. It surprised us both. It wasn’t about closure or explanation — it was pure instinct. Maybe even Mom, working through me.

Later that day, my friend Val came over and helped me make leis. She showed up with nothing to prove, just presence and aloha. She made sure I had what I needed. That quiet support meant everything.

Saturday brought a miracle of timing: I realized the Airbnb I’d rented was directly across the street from the home of my childhood friends  Michelle and Patricia. We hadn’t all been in the valley together in years, but they were both in town — and invited me to dinner. We sat, talked, remembered. It was exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

Sunday, my family and a few close friends gathered for Hawaiian food. No performance. Just presence.

Then came Monday — the anniversary. One year.

I walked to the river with a yellow and white carnation lei. I gently split it and let it drift downstream. It floated through a patch of trees and disappeared. I never saw it come out. It reminded me of her — out of sight, but always close.

I brought the other lei — a white carnation — to the cemetery, where I placed it on my grandparents’ headstone next to the flowers Patricia gave me. The air was warm. It felt complete.

This year has been about more than loss.

It’s been about meeting myself again — the self that existed underneath the people-pleasing, the caretaking, the expectations. It’s been about letting go of the roles I was taught to play and learning to live from truth, not obligation.

I’m no longer trying to perform wellness.
I’m learning to live it — messy, present, and real.

Living Real Aloha isn’t a concept I’m trying to teach. It’s a life I’m trying to live.

If you’re grieving, I see you.
If you’ve lost someone, I’m with you.
There’s no right way to do this.
Just your way. One breath, one moment at a time.