It has been nine years since I lost my mom. I was 15 years old when I received a call from her friend saying she had undergone emergency surgery the night prior.

I lived in NJ for all of my adolescence into my twenties. I was one of two girls born into a crazy Italian-American family. I was a gymnast and straight-A student. I was very privileged that my dad worked full-time and my mom was able to stay home with my sister and I - cooking amazing chicken cutlets in the kitchen, scrubbing the floors multiple times per day, singing her beautiful voice, and always lighting up a room as the life-of-the-party. She began to struggle with addiction following the passing of my paternal grandfather, as she helped take care of him through his final year of life, passing due to lung cancer. I was around the age of 13 during this time, and shortly after, my parents separated. My sister and I were schlepped between houses (aunts, dads, friends) always trying to find our way back into our home with our mom; I felt that it was our job to protect and help her. I spent two years picking her up from the floor, developing anxiety, not knowing if she would be in a good mood or a bad mood.

But she just needed help, which I relentlessly tried to push her towards. She was my mom, and the most generous, thoughtful, free-spirited, determined woman I know. She loved her girls more than anything and will always be our biggest fan.

She had been visiting a friend in Chicago, and hadn't been in the healthiest condition due to addiction and taking Humira for psoriasis, when she rushed to the ER after developing a staph infection. I received a text saying that she loved me and would be coming home the next day, but never knew she was texting me from the hospital. After her friend's phone call, my sister and I were on a flight to Chicago the following week to be by her side. She fought hard for two weeks, but unfortunately, the day after my sister's 18th birthday, her lungs/liver/kidneys/spreading infections were failing. The morning prior to her death, my sister and I were taken into a room with the doctor and some of my mother's siblings to determine whether or not to take her off of life support and if they should resuscitate. The answer was yes and no. The hardest decision of my life. I believe I went numb from that moment on that day, for awhile at least. We went back into the room crowded with friends and family and played her singing over the iPod for a few hours. At one point, someone pointed out, "She's tired of her own voice, let's put on her favorite song" ("Over the Rainbow" Eva Cassidy). As the final note of the song draw to a close, her heart stopped on the last beat.

I felt lost, especially then living with my father who had some resentment leftover for my mom. She was my person and I would've traded myself if I could; my heart shattered. I concealed it all for awhile, and I quickly joined several clubs and continued my sports in my sophomore year of high school. My mom's dream was for me to attend Stanford. I attended the Summer College program the year following her death. There I met some wonderful people, they inspired me that life had more to offer than my small home town filled with memories of her ghost. So I graduated high school early.

But once I went away for college, I became debilitatingly depressed. There was too much time for my own thoughts. I tried speaking with psychologists, I tried psychiatry, and finally, I went back to doing what I did best: fast forwarding through life. I transferred to a smaller school closer to home, and graduated college in only 3 years. I went on to do my Master's in the UK, and finally had been settled in the PNW for almost 3 years now. I recently had undergone an additional 8 months of therapy realizing I had a lot of childhood trauma, anxiety, resentment, and sadness that I had swept under the rug (until COVID brought me back inside my head).

There is no normal way for a child to endure the loss of a parent because parents are not supposed to die prematurely. We are taught that your parents will protect you, guide you, teach you, love you, and always be there for you. As someone with anxiety, losing control is an extremely hard pill to swallow. However, the advice I would give to anyone experiencing the loss of a parent is: finish the story. Do not let an uncontrollable factor (rather out of your hands) keep you from living your life; keep pushing yourself to wake up each day and finish the mission you started. My mom has been rooting me on this whole time and her determination is running through my veins. Understand your emotions and ask for help or rest when you need it, not everyone understands the weight you bare. Instead of finding peace in others, try to find your own peace in mind.