Grieving a Loss:

A Personal Letter to My Mama™

I didn’t know the world could go so quiet.

I didn’t know that grief could sit on your chest like an anvil, making it hurt just to breathe. I didn’t know how raw and unrelenting it would be to live in a world without her—my mom, my constant, my tether to something sacred.

She passed away on June 13th, 2025.

After a long, brutal battle with non-small cell lung cancer—adenocarcinoma—my mother, the strongest woman I have ever known, took her final breath. And ever since, it feels like the air has been thinner. The sky dimmer. The world off-kilter. Like a song missing its melody.

People say time heals. But what do they know? Because right now, time is a thief. Every minute that ticks by is one more moment further from the sound of her voice, her laugh, her arms around me. I would give anything to hear her say my name again. To feel her fingers comb through my hair. To be held in that mother-way that no one else can replicate. The kind that says you’re okay, because I’m here.

She isn’t here.

And that truth is a knife that keeps twisting.

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because grief is real. Messy. Unfiltered. It doesn’t come with a handbook. It hits in waves—and sometimes tsunamis. Some days, I make it through with dry eyes. Others, I’m sobbing in the car at the sound of a song she loved. Or crying into a towel so my family doesn’t see how gutted I really am.

I try to be strong. I try to carry on. But dammit, I miss my mom.

The kind of missing that makes your bones ache. The kind that has you scanning the clouds for signs. Whispering into the wind, Are you still with me? The kind of missing that makes you want to crawl back into her lap like you did when you were six years old with a skinned knee—only this time, the wound is in your soul.

Grief doesn’t end. It morphs.

Some days I talk to her. I say things out loud as if she’s standing there. Maybe she is. I have to believe that part of her is still here, tucked into the roots of the trees she loved, the recipes she passed down, the lullabies she sang to me when I was small. I search for her in the smell of lavender, in the crackle of a fire, in the strength she taught me to carry.

But it still hurts like hell.

No one tells you how hard the "firsts" will be—the first birthday without her, the first garden season without her advice, the first holiday where her chair sits painfully empty. It’s like life keeps going but in grayscale, like the color has been drained out of it.

Yet somehow, I keep waking up.

I keep homesteading. I keep tending. I keep loving. Because she raised me to be fierce. She raised me to be gentle. She raised me to hold space for the ache and still plant seeds in spring.

This letter is for anyone else grieving. You’re not crazy for being undone. You’re not weak for still aching months or years later. Loss doesn’t follow a timeline, and it damn sure doesn’t follow rules. Cry when you need to. Scream if you must. Write letters, plant flowers in her name, make the damn pie even if it tastes like tears.

Just don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.

I see you. I am you. And if my mom were here, she’d tell us both that we’re allowed to feel it all.

So, this is me, feeling it all. For her. Because of her. Forever missing her.

Rest well, Mama. I’ll love you for the rest of my life. And when it’s my time, save me a seat beside you.

Love always, Jodi

© 2025 Jodi R. Bruce Brooks. All rights reserved.

This letter is the original work of Jodi R. Bruce Brooks and may not be copied, reproduced, or distributed without express written permission.

"Grieving a Loss: A Letter to My Mama" represents a heartfelt memoir protected under copyright law.

Unauthorized use of this content, in whole or in part, is prohibited.

When the Light Began to Fade™

A Tribute to My Mother

She moved like morning through the world—
gentle, sure, and full of grace,
with kindness in her weathered hands
and sunlight etched across her face.

She taught us strength with quiet steps,
with tender eyes that always knew,
that even in the hardest storms,
love was the anchor we held to.

But cancer crept like shadowed fog,
a thief that stole the breath of spring,
and in its wake, it left us hushed,
still clinging to her everything.

It stole her voice, her light, her time,
but never touched her soul or name.
She faced the dark with lifted chin—
a fire that sickness couldn’t claim.

We watched her fade but saw her fight,
with every whisper, glance, and breath—
a warrior in garden clothes
who made her peace inside of death.

And though she’s gone from where we stand,
her footprints bloom in all we do.
Her laugh still lingers in the fields.
Her love still buds in morning dew.

So now we speak her name with care,
between the sobs and soft goodbyes.
She is the thread in all we weave,
the gentle hush in lullabies.

We miss her more than words allow—
a wound that time will never seal.
But we will honor how she lived
by planting love in all we feel.

© 2025 Jodi R. Bruce Brooks. All rights reserved.

This poem is the original work of Jodi R. Bruce Brooks and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any form without written permission.

"When the Light Began to Fade™" is a common-law trademark representing original creative works published under that name and is protected as intellectual property.

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action.