Subtle things

 As the day begins, I look forward to starting my office work. I enjoy what I do. Every meeting, every task, every brainstorming session feels like progress. Meetings aren't just about solving problems or moving projects forward—they're also about people, small moments of connection. Before I know it, the workday is over. The evening unfolds in its own familiar pace. Some days I head out for a bike ride. Other days I cook myself a meal or unwind with a television show. Life carries on through these ordinary rituals, and for a while, they are enough to keep me present. And then the silence arrives. Memories of my mom sitting quietly in bed, lying there, saying very little, begin to flash before me. The endless have's, should have's, and could have's of grief come rushing in. Some days, out of nowhere, I feel an incredible sense of gratitude. I feel motivated to move forward with courage, live with purpose.  At other times, everything feels meaningless. I think back ...

One person who is always on your side. One who witnesses your life unfold. One for whom you always came first. One who worries about you without being asked. One you want to call first, whether things go right or wrong. What happens when that person is gone? You lose the quiet certainty that someone is always there. It's not just their absence you feel. It's the disappearance of the emotional safety net you didn't realize you were leaning on. The future begins to feel empty. It can feel as though your emotional safety net has disappeared. For me, that person was my mom.   Even when we lived thousands of miles apart, she was always reachable. A phone call away.  My only place to return to. Every picture of tomorrow once included her— a phone call, her standing by my side,  or simply our daily, ordinary conversations.  Now, when I imagine the years ahead, there is a blank space where she used to be. A quiet fear of facing the future alone. I don't quite know ye...