My aim in the wake of my mother’s death is to forge connections, to find the way forward. But when I share this, people think it’s part of a grief journey. But I don’t feel like I’m grieving at all, and I don’t know how to explain that to anyone. I don’t feel guilty or lost or confused or any of that. It’s not a grief journey. It’s me saying, “I can live my life fully now. What do I do next?”
I’ve had people reach out to me to see if I need support or counseling. How do I say, “No, thank you. I’m fine. I’m not grieving my mother at all.” Who would believe such a thing? I’m reminded of The Stranger by Albert Camus where a man is judged for not crying at his mother’s funeral. (At least, I think that’s how it went. That’s all I can remember about the novel.)
Yes, I wept when my mother died. Yes, I cried before I helped push her body into the cremation chamber. Both these instances felt like an expression of a higher energy, a connection with the divine. My mother was going home, and I was helping her.
The other day I saw a post on social media where someone shared a photo of themselves with their mother, saying something like, “I miss her every day.”
While I relate to the feeling of missing someone, I can’t relate to the feeling of missing my mother. Do I miss my mother? I don’t think so. I don’t think she ever really left, for one thing.
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