SHE WAS MY SAFE PLACE.... AND THEN SHE WAS GONE

They say the world becomes a little colder when you lose your mother but they never warned me how unsafe it would feel.

No one prepares you for the day you stop being someone’s child… not because you’ve grown up, but because the person who made you feel like you could just be… is gone.

My mother wasn’t perfect. But she was mine.

She was my witness.

My protector.

The soft landing place in a world that constantly tried to harden me.

And when she died something in me stopped breathing too.

I wasn’t ready to face life without her.

Not the heartbreaks.

Not the betrayals.

Not the kind of pain that sneaks up in the middle of the night when you have no one to call, and your chest feels too tight to carry your own name.

People talk about grief like it’s something you feel when someone’s gone.

But what they don’t say is grief is also what you feel when life keeps happening… and they’re not there to see it.

Like the first time I really needed advice and all I had was silence.

Or when I sat on the floor crying after being hurt by someone, and there was no voice saying, “Come here, my child.”

Losing a mother young or emotionally young feels like being thrown into war without armor.

You become a target for pain you were never taught how to deflect.

You become vulnerable to people who say they’ll protect you but only leave you more broken.

You start to doubt your worth, because the one person who always reminded you of it... is no longer here.

I had to learn how to survive in a world that didn’t feel like home anymore.

And bestie, let me tell you something honest:

There is nothing more terrifying than trying to feel safe in a place that feels like it’s always hunting you.

I remember nights I curled up in silence, praying for a sign.

Not for things to be fixed just for someone to care that I was breaking.

I used to whisper into my pillow, hoping her spirit could hear me:

“Mom… where are you? Why did you leave when I still needed you to teach me how to be a woman?”

But the truth is… she didn’t leave me.

She was taken by time, by illness, by life.

And in her absence, I’ve had to grow a spine made of everything she ever poured into me.

There’s a strange guilt that comes with motherless survival.

You grow older, but she doesn’t.

You learn new things, but can’t share them.

You become strong, but feel like a traitor for doing it without her.

And sometimes, all you want is one more ordinary moment:

One more laugh in the kitchen.

One more tight hug when the world feels heavy.

One more “You’re doing okay, baby” when doubt swallows you whole.

Women like me the motherless daughters we learn to parent ourselves.

We cheer for ourselves.

We comfort our inner child when no one else knows how.

We sit through our own tears and wipe them away with hands that are still learning how to hold strength and softness at the same time.

We learn how to mother without ever being fully mothered.

And somehow, we still rise.

But I won't lie to you.

I still struggle with trust.

I still feel unsafe, even when no one is around.

I still crave someone to fight for me the way she used to — or would have, if she were here.

Sometimes I wake up with a tight chest and an even tighter smile.

Because I’ve become too used to pretending I’m okay.

I’ve become too used to silence.

To self-soothing.

To surviving in a world that doesn't care if you're breaking, as long as you're still standing.

I’ve had to be strong when I wanted to fall apart.

And I’ve had to say “I’m fine” when everything inside me was screaming.

But despite it all… I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still healing.

Still fighting for peace even if it’s one small piece at a time.

Because surviving doesn’t mean you’re weak.

It means you’ve learned to live through pain without letting it swallow you.

It means you still choose to show up for life even when life didn’t show up for you.

To the girl who lost her mother and never felt safe again:

I see you.

You’re not weak.

You’re not broken.

You’re not unworthy of protection just because the world didn’t offer it to you.

You are proof that even in the absence of softness, a woman can still grow into a safe place for herself.

You are becoming the mother you needed.

You are the strength she left behind.

You are the fire that grief couldn’t extinguish.

And one day, you’ll hold a soft moment in your hands again.

It won’t be perfect.

But it will be yours.

And it will be enough.