Welcome to In My Rearview

This story is about my mother, grief, and the dream that finally helped me move forward. If you enjoy thoughtful reflections about life, work, and the lessons we only understand later, you’re in the right place.

My Mother and the Career Talks

My mother and I talked about work more than almost anything else.

Careers. Jobs. Bosses. Coworkers.

Those conversations were woven into the rhythm of our relationship, usually somewhere between coffee, food, and her famous goodbye line whenever I was leaving her house.

“Is there anything here you want to take with you?”

Her hugs didn’t just warm your heart.
They warmed your soul.

For my mother, work wasn’t optional—it was simply what you did. She spent most of her career at General Electric, and whether she liked the job or not was never really up for discussion.

You got paid.
You showed up.
You did the work.

And she did.

Her loyalty was unwavering, and her work ethic was impeccable. I admired that about her. I wanted to mirror it in my own life.

But something in me was always a little different.

Because while my mother believed work was simply something you did…

I kept wondering if my work was supposed to mean something more.

The Restlessness

In my mid-twenties, after the death of my uncle, I began questioning my career.

At the time, I had what many people would call a great job. But the work was repetitive. And for someone like me, repetition eventually turns into boredom.

Boredom becomes frustration.
Frustration quietly becomes anxiety and depression.

Even as a little girl, all I ever wanted was to follow my own flow—wherever it led.

Some days I wanted to be a fairy.
Other days a singer, a writer, or a teacher.

What I knew for certain was this: I didn’t want to spend my life doing the mundane.

I wanted to inspire people.
I wanted to change lives.
I wanted to encourage others.

In many ways, just like my mother did.

Encouraging people came naturally to me. I could read a room quickly. I could feel what others were feeling.

Some people call that being a Highly Sensitive Person.

My mother supported most things in my life that were practical.
But creativity? That she brushed off as playfulness.

She loved my ballet recitals. She sat proudly through piano recitals, school choir concerts, and the times singing solos at church.

But a career doing those things? That was out of reach.

A stable 8-to-5 job was what she knew. And what she wanted for me.
It was safe.

So we kept having our career conversations.

And despite all those talks, I changed jobs often.

I’ve always had many interests. Once I mastered something—or got bored—I moved on.

Every time I started a new job, I had the same line:

“I’m only doing this until my real job comes along.”

I didn’t mean that in an ungrateful way.

But the truth was simple. Most jobs never felt aligned with who I really was.

And for years one question quietly followed me through life:

Will I ever become who I was truly meant to be?

The Day Everything Changed

On February 26, 2019, my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer.

We were still in the emergency room when she saw the scans.

She looked at them quietly and said,

“Well… I smoked.”

That sentence pierced my heart.

I believe it was her way of accepting what was coming.

After the doctor spoke with her, I asked the emergency room hospitalist if I could talk with her outside the room.

She nodded.

We walked just far enough down the hall so my mother couldn’t hear our conversation.

The moment I turned toward the doctor, I fell into her arms.

“My mother is going to die,” I said.

She just held me tightly.

“I am so sorry.”

After a few moments I gathered myself, wiped my tears, and walked back into my mother’s room.

I sat on the edge of her bed.
I rubbed her face.
I touched her hair.
I stared at her, trying to memorize every detail.

Mom fought death as long as she could.

But in the end, death held out its hand.

And my mother took hold.

She passed away on Monday morning, March 18, 2019.
Just twenty days after her diagnosis.

On that day, the light in my soul went completely dark.

Sitting Inside Grief

For the next four years, I lived inside grief.

My mother had been cremated—something new for our family—and I struggled deeply with it. My mind would replay the cremation process over and over again.

I hated the thoughts of my mother was in a jar.

But the jar itself meant something to me.

It was a beautiful tobacco jar she had given me years earlier after a wonderful day of shopping together. One of many days we had shared.

So that is where her ashes rested—on my fireplace mantle.

Every night after long days working in healthcare sales, I would sit on the couch and look at that jar.

And miss her.

Shortly after she died, panic set in about my own life.

Would I accomplish anything?
How much time did I have left?

I was terrified.

I enrolled in graduate school for a master’s in public health. Around that same time, I lost my job.

Oddly enough, I didn’t care.

I knew my mother would have hated the idea of me not working. But I was trying to learn how to function in a world without my “go-to” person.

And suddenly… I had no one to go to.

The Silence

Grief didn’t just take my mother.
It fractured my family too.

A disagreement during her illness created distance I didn’t know how to repair. I stopped speaking with my aunts—women I had talked to monthly for most of my life.

Four years passed.
Four years without them.

Looking back now, that silence was its own kind of grief.

Still, I kept moving forward.

I focused on graduate school. I served on county boards. I completed an administrators-in-training program for assisted living communities.

Eventually I returned to work.

But if I’m being honest… I didn’t enjoy the job.
In fact, I never really enjoyed sales.

And if I’m being even more honest, I wasn’t fully together either.
I was still grieving.

After nearly three years of working nonstop, I finally left the role.

The truth was, I had known from the first day.
I didn’t like the job.

And once again, that old thought crept in:

Would my mother be disappointed in me?

Every morning, I woke up feeling the same loss.
It never changed.

Grief felt like living the same day over and over again.
Groundhog Day… but with sorrow.

Until one night something happened that changed everything.

The Dream

In January 2023, my mother came to me in a dream.

She had visited before, but this time was different.

Her face looked thin and drawn. Almost skeletal.
She was wearing a yellow button-down shirt—actually my stepfather’s old mowing shirt.

She stood in the hallway.
Silent.
Her mouth slightly open, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t.
She just looked at me.
Sad.

I was already crying in my sleep before I woke up.

When I sat up in bed, the grief I had held inside for years burst out of me. I sobbed so hard I had to get out of bed to catch my breath.

“Mom,” I said out loud.
“Why are you so sad? Are you sad I quit my job? What’s wrong?”

Then it hit me.

I hadn’t spoken to my aunts in nearly four years.
And my mother would never have wanted that.

The Call

So I picked up the phone and called my Aunt Linda.

When I heard her voice, my heart broke open.

I wished her a happy birthday.

She laughed and said, “Well thank you… it was yesterday.”

We chatted for a moment.
Then I started crying.

She said something that changed everything.

“You’re not just grieving your mother,” she told me.
“You’re grieving your family too.”

She was right.
So, I told her my plan.
I was going to bury my mother.

The Burial

We planned it for March 7, 2023.

I bought a purple marble urn engraved with the words:

“You will always be my sunshine.”

The funeral home transferred the ashes at no charge.
The county charged $250 to prepare the gravesite.
I bought a spring flower spray and a sunny bouquet for her marker.

And every time I paid for something… I paid with a smile.

For the first time in years, something felt right.

The day of the burial was the only sunny day that week.

My aunts, cousins, and my son Daniel met me at the gravesite.

I thanked everyone for coming.
I read scripture about the lessons my mother had taught me.
I sang.
And I read a poem I had created and written just for her.

When the time came, I lowered the urn into the ground myself.

It was important to me that the final hands placing her there belonged to someone who loved her without measure.

Everyone shared memories.

And something beautiful happened.

My family wasn’t just there for my mother again.
They were there for me.

When it was over, I asked them to visit her sometimes.
To talk with her.
Because she would listen.
Just like she always had.

And for the first time in years… I felt peace.

Looking in the Rearview

My life looks different now.

I’m happy again.
Curious again.
Excited about what’s ahead.

I visit my mother every month. We talk about life.
And yes, sometimes we still talk about work.

Looking back now, I realize something important about that dream.

My mother wasn’t the one who was sad.
It was me.
She simply showed me a reflection of myself without saying a word.

Profound.
Powerful.
And something I will always be grateful for.

I still miss her deeply.
But now I feel free to become who I was meant to be.

Resilient.
Independent.
Curious.
A little goofy.
Passionate and compassionate.

I still believe in fairies and fairy dust.
Now I just make my own and sprinkle it wherever encouragement is needed.

In My Rearview is a rebirth…

Because sometimes the clearest understanding of who we are… comes from what we finally see when we look back.

Mom, I love you.
You are still the light in my shine.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join me here in In My Rearview.
It’s a space to reflect on life, family, work, and the moments that shape who we are—sometimes in ways we only understand later.

Subscribe and come along for the journey.

Share In My Rearview

There are many days, after a particularly draining client or two or three, I will park for a moment and let the frustration spill out. My hands on the steering wheel, my chest feeling heavy, and for a few minutes, I’m thinking the world can just wait.

Not being balanced in my thoughts and being rushed from one client to another can be challenging. Knowing I had another client to meet very soon, I knew I needed to be all happy faced again. I needed to show up fully, even though the last session had taken every ounce of my energy. So, I sucked up the tears, dried my face, and reapplied my makeup.

I ask myself—and maybe you do too—why we feel we have to hide exhaustion. Why we feel we must put on a mask and keep moving, even when we’re empty.

The truth I’ve learned in moments like these is this: strength isn’t about pretending everything is fine. It’s about acknowledging what you feel, taking a breath, and choosing to show up anyway. Even a small pause, a few deep breaths, or letting it out for a few minutes makes all the difference.

Sometimes strength looks like parking your car, crying quietly, and reminding yourself that being human doesn’t make you weak—it makes you resilient. Let me know if you have every experienced this, and what strategies did you use?

One reflection at a time. One small dose at a time.

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