Alexandra Pflaumer
February 6, 2025
Five years. Somehow, it has been five years since my mother passed away. In some ways, it feels like forever. In others, it feels like just yesterday. I still have moments, although fewer and farther between, where it feels like, if I just imagine her hard enough, I’ll be able to pick up the phone and call her. A strange thing about grief—it warps time, making it impossible to measure loss in neat, predictable ways.
In the beginning, grief felt like a gaping, open wound in my chest. I felt so exposed, yet unseen, as the world kept moving about. The weight of her absence was suffocating, and I wasn’t sure how to keep going without her. Over the years, grief has changed— evolved. It has softened, deepened, and, in its own way, taught me things I never expected to learn.
As I reflect on this fifth anniversary of losing her, I realize how much my relationship with grief has changed. Here are five things I’ve learned along the way:
1. Grief Doesn’t Follow a Timeline
I used to think that by year five, I would feel “better.” That I would have moved past the hardest parts. The world seems to think that a year is the magic timeframe to 'get over' a death. But grief isn’t linear—it doesn’t fade according to a schedule. There are still days when I miss her so much it physically aches- I can show you the exact spot in my chest where that hole is. There are also many days when I smile at a memory, feeling her presence rather than her absence. Healing isn’t about reaching an endpoint; it’s about learning to carry grief in a way that allows you to keep moving forward.
2. Love Doesn’t End with Loss
For a long time, I equated grief with pain. I thought that as my grief softened, it meant I was somehow forgetting her, letting go of the love we shared. I’ve come to understand that my grief for my mom has another name—love. She may not be physically here, but my love for her is still alive, present in the way I remember her, in the lessons she taught me, in the way I live my life. One of my favorite piano songs is called 'Threads of Love', written as a reminder that we all sew threads of love through connections with others. My mother's thread did not snag or tug loose when she left this physical world. I often visualize sending and receiving love through our thread when I meditate.
3. Grief is Unpredictable
There are no rules for how or when grief shows up. Some days, it’s a quiet undercurrent; other days, it crashes over me without warning. A song, a book, a familiar phrase—small things can bring back a wave of longing so strong it takes my breath away. Every time I pass a certain exit on the highway, I'm reminded that I used to call my mom on the way home from work every day, and near that one exit, my signal would get weak and my call would cut out for a few seconds. Whenever I see that exit, I have a deep longing for just one more phone conversation with her. I’ve learned not to fight moments like this. Instead, I let myself feel it, knowing that grief comes in waves, some big and some small, and each one will pass. Now, I still imagine what I would tell her about, and am often enlightened that I know exactly what she would say, or advice she would give, in response.
4. Carrying Grief Doesn’t Mean Carrying It Alone
For a long time, I kept my grief close, afraid to burden others with my pain. But I’ve learned that sharing my grief—through conversations, memories, and even writing this—creates space for connection, for healing. I’ve found comfort in talking about her, in letting her name be spoken, in allowing others to remember her with me. I also believe we avoid talking about death and grief as a society-- because we don't know what to say, how to 'fix' it, and quite frankly, want to avoid our own mortality. By being open about my own grief journey, I'm allowing others to show me unconditional love, and I hope that I'm also holding space for others to open up about their journeys.
5. She’s Still Here, Just in a Different Way
For so long, I searched for signs of her, wanting to feel her presence in some undeniable way. While I still see and appreciate what I believe are signs of her presence, I realize she’s always been here. She is with me in the way I comfort a friend, in the way I laugh, in the way I mother my children, and when I support my clients. She’s a part of me, woven into who I am. That thread doesn't just connect us, it is part of us. That’s how I know she’ll never truly be gone.
This anniversary, I still feel the ache of missing her. I still have days where I cry when I speak about her. I also feel gratitude—gratitude for the years I had with her, for the love she gave me, for the lessons she continues to teach me.
To anyone navigating grief, know this: It changes, but it never disappears. And that’s okay. Because grief is love, and love never truly leaves us. You are forever changed. You are beautifully broken; beautifully scarred.
Mom, I miss you every day and I carry you with me, always.
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