Living with a ghost: What Was, What Might Have Been, and What Is
It’s something I’ve carried my whole life, but as I’ve grown older and experienced more loss, I’ve given it a name. It follows me everywhere—sometimes comforting, sometimes haunting, sometimes confusing, and sometimes delivering pain that transcends the physical realm. I call it the Ghost of Me.
The ghost first appeared when I was six weeks old, though I couldn’t have known it then. That’s when my mother received the devastating phone call: my father had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I never knew him, but his absence reverberated through my life, shaping me in ways I couldn’t yet understand. My ghost introduced itself more fully in second grade, in Mrs. Fallon’s classroom. Father’s Day cards were the assignment, and I didn’t have a dad to make one for. Instead, I had a ghost—the ghost of what might have been.
Over the years, my ghost lingered through Daddy-Daughter Dances I didn’t attend and Indian Princess events I couldn’t participate in. But even then, the voice of my ghost was soft, almost gentle. My mother, my superhero, committed herself entirely to raising my brother and me. She was a doctor, a business owner, a provider, a chauffeur, a teacher, and an endless source of love and resilience. My childhood, despite its loss, was full of joy and love.
When I was in fourth grade, my mother was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive cancer: non-secretory multiple myeloma. The doctors gave her a 15% chance of survival. She temporarily moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, to work with a specialist, while my elderly grandfather moved to Dallas to care for my brother and me. Looking back now, I marvel at her strength—a single, self-employed mother facing unimaginable odds. Her bravery left an indelible mark on me. She went into remission, defying expectations, and we celebrated eight more beautiful years together.
But ghosts have a way of returning. My senior year of high school, my mother noticed her eye was swollen. At first, she dismissed it as allergies. But as her energy waned, we eventually discovered the cancer had returned, spreading aggressively. In January, she was admitted to the hospital with kidney failure. The following weeks were a blur of hospital visits, legal documents, and helplessness. I held her hand as she slipped further away.
On February 13, 2014, we made the impossible decision to let her go. I remember collapsing to my knees before walking into her ICU room for the last time. Sitting beside her, I whispered words that would forever be etched in my heart: “I love you, and I wouldn’t trade the 17 years I had with you as my mother for a lifetime with anyone else.”
After her death, the ghost grew louder and more insistent. It no longer simply haunted moments like Father’s Day or father-related events—it began to shadow my every step. The echoes of what was, what might have been, and what is became deafening. Questions plagued me: Would my mom approve of my decisions? Would she be proud of me? Would my life look entirely different if she were still here? I had now discovered the true identity of my ghost: it was grief.
The last ten years have been a journey of finding balance between moving forward and staying connected to the person I was before their loss. Therapy, faith, and a supportive community have helped me carry the weight of my grief. I’ve come to realize that the ghost of me will always be there, but it doesn’t have to be my enemy.
I’ve found hope in the belief that our time on earth, though finite, is profoundly meaningful. The people who touch our lives leave an imprint that transcends their physical presence. For me, faith in Jesus has brought healing and reassurance that while our bodies are temporary, our souls endure. One day, I trust I’ll see my parents again, in a place where the echoes of loss will be replaced with eternal peace and belonging.
For now, I carry my ghost with me—a reminder of the love that shaped me, the grief that changed me, and the hope that sustains me.