I recently finished a book that I absolutely could not put down. I read the whole thing in less than 48 hours. The story was about a woman from 1970 who lost her husband in the Vietnam war. Shortly after being informed of his death she learns she is pregnant. During her pregnancy, her doctor discovers that her baby has hypoplastic left heart syndrome and in 1970 the survival rate of that condition is zero.

On the other side of the story we learn about her brother-in-law who is a time traveler from 2018. He sends her to the year 2001 where fetal surgery advancements exist so she can have the surgery needed to save her life. In short, the surgery works but it takes far longer to recover after being born than they had planned, causing her to have to return to 1970 without her. On her return trip to 2001 to bring her daughter back to 1970, something goes wrong and she winds up in 2013. She finds her daughter is alive and adopted by a loving family. After spending several weeks with her and her parents under the guise of a neighborhood dog walker/trainer extraordinaire she comes to the decision that she must leave her in 2013 where she belongs.

It got me thinking about grief. What grief after losing a mother feels like—time moving forward while love insists on staying.

Leaving Someone in Time

The grief of afterward

Grief can feel like time travel without a machine. The rest of the world keeps moving in one direction, and you’re split between “then” and “now.” After my mom died, I started measuring life in “afters”—the first birthday after, the first holiday after, the first ordinary Tuesday after. There’s a quiet brutality to realizing I can cross new thresholds, but she cannot. I left my mother in 2023 because that’s where her story ended. And some days it feels like I’m sneaking into the future alone.

What makes this grief so heavy isn’t only the missing; it’s the stoppage. The relationship stops growing. No new jokes. No new advice. No new photos where we both look a little older and a little more ourselves. It’s a very specific kind of silence.

What time can’t take

Even when a life stops, love stays kinetic. It moves through the small things: the way I catch myself using her phrase without thinking; the recipe card with a coffee ring; the instinct to call her when I find something the exact shade of purple that she loved so much. Time can’t take the skills she taught me, the humor she modeled when the day went sideways, or the values she pressed into me when I wasn’t looking.

I used to think acceptance meant I wouldn’t hurt. Now I think acceptance is letting love keep working on me, even when the person I learned it from isn’t here to supervise.

Bringing her forward (instead of “moving on”)

I can’t take my mother beyond January 25, 2023 as a person, but I can carry her forward as a practice. These are the anchors that help on the days grief arrives uninvited:

• The “carry-forward” list: Three things of hers I actively practice in new situations (a phrase, a boundary, a kindness). I keep them on my phone so the future doesn’t feel so empty.
• Do it like she would day: Once a month I pick one ordinary task and do it her way—fold the towels like she taught me, make her favorite dinner, water plants with the same fussed-over attention. Ritual turns memory into motion.
• The 10-minute tether: When a wave hits, I give myself ten minutes to do something sensory and simple—walk to the mailbox, hold a warm mug with both hands, step into the sun. It reminds my body I’m still here.
• A better ask: When I need support, I don’t just say “I’m sad.” I try, “Today is heavy. Can you listen while I tell one story about my mom?” Naming the shape of help makes it easier for people to meet me.

Language for hard days

People often don’t know what to say about loss. Sometimes I don’t either. Here are words that have helped me—feel free to borrow them:

• To yourself: “Of course this hurts. I’m touching the part of my life that stopped.”
• To a friend: “I don’t need solutions. I need company while I do this one thing.”
• When the guilt shows up: “Living is not a betrayal. Carrying her forward is a form of loyalty.”

For the firsts you’ll do without them

The “firsts” are loud. Here’s how I’m learning to meet them:

1. Plan one anchor. Choose a small, concrete act you’ll do that day in their honor (light a candle, wear their color, donate to a cause they loved).
2. Name what you’re skipping. Give yourself permission to decline one thing that spikes overwhelm.
3. Make a proof of love. Snap a photo of your anchor, write a two-sentence memory, or save a voice memo. Over time, these become a record that you didn’t “move on”—you moved with.

A note to my mother

Mom, you are paused at 2023, but you are not stuck there. You move every time I choose kindness over convenience, every time I set a boundary you would’ve cheered, every time I laugh the way you did—head back, unpretty, whole. I can’t bring you forward as a person, but I can bring you forward as a way to live. And I will.