I will likely be a broken man for the rest of my life.
It has been more than four years since my mom passed away, and the void she left behind has never closed. Her absence has taken a deeper toll on me than I ever imagined—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Some losses do not heal. They simply become part of who we are.
When a matriarch dies, the emptiness left behind is something no one truly understands until it happens to them.
It doesn’t help that the world itself feels upside down. The country I grew up in feels almost unrecognizable now, as if the familiar ground beneath my feet quietly disappeared while I wasn’t looking. Even without personal loss and health problems, that alone would be unsettling. Layered on top of everything else, it feels overwhelming.
Things that once excited me—making photos, creating videos, chasing the next job or the next adventure—have quietly slipped away. The well that once fueled those pursuits feels dry now, empty of whatever spark once lived there.
I’ve always been something of a loner, never entirely comfortable around people. Since my mom passed, that tendency has multiplied a thousandfold. Solitude has become both my refuge and my trap. There are people I care about deeply—family included—and yet the comfort that should come from being around them just isn’t there.
My mental and physical health have both suffered, and the peace I once felt in my soul seems harder to find. I keep telling myself that everything around me has changed since my mom died. But the truth is harder to admit: the biggest change is in me.
Sometimes my mind drifts toward drastic ideas—packing up, moving somewhere new, changing everything, starting over under a different sky. Then the latest lab results arrive, and I’m reminded there may not be as much time left as I once assumed.
I asked a friend recently to help me put one of the houses up for rent or sale. She kindly agreed, then quietly disappeared from the effort. And that was that.
Still, I know I cannot keep treading water like this. Even if the next step turns out to be wrong, I have to take one. I trust that God will lead me somewhere better than standing still.
Over the past year, I’ve been steadily clearing things out—from my mom’s house and from mine. Lately, the pace has picked up, almost instinctively, as if some quiet voice inside me knows the clock is moving faster than I’d like to admit.
It’s four in the morning as I write this. I should be sleeping so I can make better use of another new day. Instead, I’m sitting here thinking about something I read earlier—an interview with Suzanne Somers’ husband after her passing. He spoke about how peaceful it was at the end. She had battled more health problems than most people face in a lifetime, yet she managed to live fully and remain in a loving marriage until the very end.
Her enormous home and fortune couldn’t save her. And none of that will comfort those left behind when they miss her voice or wish they could feel her arms around them again.
How we carry that loss forward becomes part of their legacy.
And right now, if I’m honest, I don’t feel like I’m honoring my mother’s legacy very well.
That needs to change.
I still have work to do.
