Navigating the Uncharted Waters of Grief: My Journey Through Losing My Mom
Grief is one of life’s most profound shared experiences.
And yet, we avoid talking about it.
We hide our discomfort with isolation, acting out, and the blanket words, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I think in part it’s because when you’re in it, grief is complex, private, and overwhelming.
When you haven’t been through it it feels taboo and scary AF.
When I lost my mother, I was completely unprepared for the tidal wave of emotions that followed.
My story isn’t just about loss; it’s about navigating a journey no one can truly be ready for.
It’s about learning to sit with pain, embracing unexpected lessons, and finding a way to move forward, even when the road seems impossible.
A Sudden Turn: When Life Changed Forever
I was at home in Los Angeles when the first calls from my mom started coming in.
She complained of strange headaches.
I urged her to see a doctor, but she brushed it off.
My mother avoided doctors.
She believed in miracles and the power of Jesus to heal. She’d seen it many times in her life. I had too.
Personally, I believe in magic and miracles and also a practical approach.
I used to say to her, “believe in God but you still lock your car doors.”
When she finally went, she said the doctor mentioned strokes, but she still refused to go to the hospital.
Stubborn Latina Scorpio, just like me.
Always the caretaker, she insisted someone needed to be home to take care of my dad.
We fought about it.
Why didn’t that doctor insist? Why didn’t they call an ambulance?
Then came the call I’ve dreaded my whole life.
My mother had collapsed at church, and it seemed serious.
I dropped everything and flew to Texas.
Less than 24 hours later, she was gone.
A brain aneurysm took her the day before her 70th birthday.
A Daughter, a Mother, a Healer: My Reality
I’m a woman in my 40s, juggling the demands of a small child, a husband, and a business as an energy healer.
As an American born, only child to a Bolivian mother and Cuban father, my bond with my mother was unique.
She never shied away from talking about death and looked forward to meeting her maker one day.
She also made sure I knew about the stash of cash that would surely be hidden in one of her jacket pockets.
We had plans—plans that never included this abrupt end.
My dad, 15 years her senior, was always expected to go first.
The idea was that she’d move to Los Angeles, be near me, and help raise my son. He would learn our history, our culture, Spanish… from her.
She had waited my entire life for me to have children, and now my son would never know the best of her.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
The Pain of Letting Go
The news of her condition hit like a freight train.
She was non-verbal, with a brain bleed that wasn’t going to resolve.
I remember sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, admiring her long chocolate brown manicure, feeling utterly helpless.
I rested my head against her arm begging her not to leave me.
I could feel her spirit hovering outside her body watching us, still somehow tethered to her physical body.
In my darkest moment, I heard her compassionate voice, crystal clear and familiar: “No llores por mi” - “don’t cry for me.”
And with those words came a profound sense of peace, as if she were telling me, “I’m okay.”
That peace didn’t make the pain any less excruciating.
It’s really frickin’ hard to wrap your head around someone not getting better.
What do you mean there’s nothing you can do? What do you mean there’s no brain activity?
She believed in miracles… where was my miracle?
When we took her off life support the next day, she was surrounded by family, friends, and her pastor.
We prayed as she slipped away, a serene end that I believe she wouldn’t have wanted any other way.
That peace became my foundation through the chaos that followed.
Figuring out where my dad would go, what to do with their house, all their stuff.
Navigating the Depths of Grief
Once I was back in LA, the days and weeks that followed were a blur of unbearable sadness.
I literally couldn’t get out of bed. I cried in my sleep, woke up crying, cried myself to sleep, and felt frozen in pain.
It really feels like grief will kill you.
That’s part of what causes us to push these feelings away, they’re just too uncomfortable.
But instead of resisting these emotions, I allowed myself to feel them fully.
I ignored the advice to stay busy and distract myself—that only suppresses, not heals.
I let the grief wash over me until it began to lift, even if just a little.
I remember one of my first outings to pick up my son at pre-k.
There was this fragility and fear of interacting with people. Did they know? Would they act weird? Would they just act normal?
I didn’t feel normal and I couldn’t pretend.
The thought of pity, sympathy, or that look in someone’s eyes, made me cringe.
I remember seeing one of his teachers and she just opened her arms and held me.
To be held and have my experience acknowledged, no words needed. That was medicine.
Grief isn’t linear.
Society often expects us to be “better” after a year, but that timeline is misleading.
A year in, I was just starting to emerge from the shock.
Grief reveals itself in waves, and just when you think you’re okay, it can hit you all over again—like raw skin grazing fabric.
And there’s something about the yearly markers.
The body remembers and it will remind you.
Maybe the week leading up to the day feels off, irritable, sad- and then you remember.
I’ve seen this with a lot of my clients even decades later when they don’t remember the day, their body remembers and it manifests itself in unexpected ways.
It’s been over five years and I still feel like I just lost my mom.
My mom (I was about 16) in Costa Rica. Of course, she’s reading her bible.
Lessons in Pain and Healing
My mother and I had a complicated relationship, filled with love and tension.
Her religious beliefs were a source of conflict between us, but I’ve come to understand that she was only trying to save me in the way she knew how.
My mom was tough, but it truly came from the deepest heart of love.
She wanted to connect to the spiritual realm so profoundly that it guided her every action.
She is where I learned unshakable faith.
She would talk to anyone about her relationship with God.
It embarrassed me as a kid, but now, as an adult who struggles to share my truth publicly, I see it as the most beautiful gift she was relentlessly trying to share with the world.
As an energy healer, I believe I chose my parents for the experiences they would provide me.
Their rigidity shaped my open-mindedness, my belief in miracles, and my relentless pursuit of healing and connection to something greater than me.
If I didn’t have my background, I would’ve stewed in misery longer.
I would’ve asked what I call Torture Questions, like “Why me?” “Why now?”
Instead, I was able to sit faithfully in my beliefs about spirit and energy and connect with my mom in a way most people probably don’t think is possible.
I was able to look for the ways she is still with me instead of the ways she isn’t.
My experience as someone who clears and heals emotions allowed me to process my feelings without resisting them.
It’s also just too much to process, so I’m sure I still have plenty stuck in my body, and that’s okay.
I’m not afraid of it.
I let the emotions come when they’re ready.
I honor them.
Signs from the Other Side
Grief wasn’t hidden in my family, though powering through and always working hard were a given.
But as Latinos, we wear our emotions on our sleeves.
I appreciate that the example I was shown was about being passionate in life.
I think that’s why it’s easier for me to feel my mom around me now.
In order to feel her, I have to be willing to feel.
I talk to her constantly.
She sends me signs—7’s, because of course according to her 7 was Jesus’s number.
I can feel that part of her helping me succeed.
She wanted me to succeed in my career, as a parent, and as a wife.
I feel her working from the other side, ushering things forward for me.
She comes to me in dreams. I write them all down.
She’s often shown me the beautiful place she lives and how clean she keeps it, with fresh flowers everywhere.
She was the original plant daddy.
Knowing she’s in a beautiful place brings me comfort.
Believing and understanding signs has kept me connected to her.
Moving Forward with Grief
Grief is not something to overcome; it’s something to move through.
It changes you, shapes you, and can strengthen you.
I’m still learning to live with the loss, still navigating the waves of sadness that come unexpectedly.
But I know now that grief isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a testament to love.
If you’re struggling with loss, know that you’re not alone.
Allow yourself to feel, to grieve, to remember.
There’s no right way to mourn.
It’s okay to not be okay.
And when you’re ready, there are communities and resources that can help you find your way through the darkness.
I’m committed that as a collective we embrace grief instead of shy away from it.
That we express as openly as we can to carry each other when we’re at our lowest point.
If this story resonates with you and you’re looking for more support, or simply want to connect with others navigating the the unchartered waters of life, I invite you to join my email list, The Casual Coven, a supportive space for magic, love, and clarity.
Let’s rewrite how we grieve together.
With love,
Carmen xo