One Year Without My Mom

A year of grief, truth, unexpected grace, and returning to myself.

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’d 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 idea, but as a necessity. I didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

Full-circle moments and unexpected grace

This past weekend, I marked the one-year anniversary of losing my mom. It unfolded in small rituals, surprising connections, and moments that felt guided.

On Friday, I ran into my former boss at the grocery store — the one I hadn’t seen since leaving my job to care for Mom. I had rehearsed everything I wanted to say 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 wasn’t about closure or explanation — it was instinct. Maybe even Mom, working through me.

Later that day, my friend Val came over to help me make leis. She brought nothing but presence. No fixing. No advice. Just aloha. She made sure I had what I needed. That quiet support meant everything.

Saturday brought a little miracle: I realized the Airbnb I’d rented was across the street from my childhood friends' parent's home. We hadn’t all been in the valley together in years — but the sisters happened to be in town. They 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.

The anniversary — one year

Monday was the day.

I walked down to the river carrying a yellow-and-white carnation lei, the kind she always loved. I split it gently and let the pieces touch the water one by one. They drifted together for a moment, then slowly followed the current, soft and certain. When they reached a cluster of trees, they slipped out of sight and never reappeared. It felt like her — just beyond where I could see, but still so close I could almost feel her beside me.

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

More than loss

This year has been about more than losing my mom.

It’s been about meeting myself again — the self that lived 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 something 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.