These grief survival tips are for anyone who has lost a parent. These tips aren’t just for mothers or only for people who’ve lost their mother, but if you’ve been through the rite of passage into motherless motherhood, this post may contain something you especially need to hear.
My mother died when I was on vacation in Florida, over three thousand miles from home. My kids had just turned seven and nine, and as they splashed in the pool I cried behind sunglasses and made plans to fly north alone to the quiet hamlet near Lake Ontario where my mom had lived. I didn’t know what to do. I was flooded with shock and raw grief. Maybe this is you right now.
My mom was the keystone of my life, and without her the world began to crumble. I couldn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I cried puddles with my forehead resting on the sandy hotel carpeting. At 3 a.m., surrounded by piles of tissues, I desperately googled “my mom died now what?” thinking surely the internet would have an answer. But I didn’t find what I needed–just lots of articles about how time heals grief and the five stages that were coming for me.
1. Find Friends
Whether you have a village around you or just one or two friends you can rely on, try to open up to someone in your life who knows about your loss and what you’re going through. Maybe this is a coworker or another school parent. A neighbor. Maybe you can reconnect with an old friend from the past.
We need people. We need connection.
Reach out. You don’t have to share anything that would make you uncomfortable to confide, but having another human adult around to check in with can open the pressure valve and ease the intensity when grieving while trying to function in the real world gets too hard.
You’ll expend heaps of energy holding yourself together for your children or others and putting on a brave face. You’ll need to be strong, so try to find someone you can text or call when you feel close to your boiling point.
2. Identify A Stunt Double
No one can ever replace your own mother or your own father. When they die, it leaves a gaping hole no one else will ever fill. But having someone who can put even one foot into the role of mom or dad for you may be a comfort.
Sometimes they do it naturally. After my mom died, her lifelong best friend sort of gently scooped me up and took me in, not trying to be my mom, but showing up in small ways that meant a lot. She sends cards on my birthday and on my mother‘s birthday. She emails little stories and memories of my mom on holidays. She never forgets to connect on my mom‘s death anniversary. She messages me when she sees a rainbow or a butterfly when she’s having a bad day to let me know she feels my mom’s spirit is with her.
If you don’t have someone quite so close, you can still absorb comfort and ease some of the ache by being near people around your parent’s age. My mom died at age 70, and I naturally gravitate toward women around that age now. Some are the grandparents of my kids’ classmates at school events , while others are people I casually encounter, like women who strike up a conversation in a grocery store checkout line.
These older women have endured. They often possess wisdom and whimsy. Being near them is like moving to rest in the sun on a chilly day. They aren’t my mom, but absorbing a little of their older mom aura makes me feel less alone. Even if it’s only for three minutes, talking over bolts of sparkly tulle in the fabric store, I feel buoyed up and held afloat emotionally with my temporary, stand-in, stunt double mom.
3. Be Wary Of Pitfalls
I’m a nineties kid at heart, so the warning to be wary of pitfalls immediately conjures memories of playing Super Mario Brothers on a rich kid’s Nintendo 64. Being a mom in these modern times is in fact a lot like being Mario–constantly running forward, avoiding entities that would do us harm, while leaping over physical obstacles and deadly, bottomless chasms.
As moms we’re almost always “on”. On duty. On call. On alert for the needs of others. Add a life altering loss like the death of a parent on top of your usual heavy and numerous responsibilities, and simply surviving can feel impossible. You’re holding big, raw grief while momming 24/7. Something’s got to give. Something falls through the cracks. Something important gets ignored. That something is usually your well being.
While you are busy holding up the entire sky for your children and family, as well as managing the grief that threatens to swamp you, several unhealthy pitfalls widen, and it’s so easy to fall into them if you don’t know what to watch out for. When we’re tired, sad, and feeling sick or hopeless or alone, we can slide into traps and not realize how deeply we are entrenched.
You might start compulsively shopping online. It fills the void temporarily, drains your bank account, and fills your house with stuff you really don’t need.
You might not be able to stop doom scrolling on social media. It’s so easy to lose an hour or more in that void.
You might get addicted to a video game because each new level or achievement is a time you feel successful, as opposed to the real world where most things are a struggle or too overwhelming.
You might develop addictions to alcohol, mindless eating, drugs, or other substances that feel good in the moment but ultimately hurt your body or reduce your quality of life in other ways.
It can be so easy to sink down when you’re deeply sad, depressed, or grieving. After my mom died, I daydreamed about sinking into quicksand, letting it swallow me up completely, filling my ears and drowning out the outside noise.
It can seem like these unhealthy habits or addictions give us peace or blips of happiness, but those tiny dopamine surges are sharpened claws latching more deeply to our well being, pulling us down.
Unhealthy habits prevented me from being a present parent. I began to destroy myself. I fell far enough into unhealthy patterns after my mom died that getting our heads to stay above water was a long, hard swim. It took a long time to change. Eventually, I started to get clear about where I needed my life to go and how I wanted to feel.
I’m referring to basic survival and getting myself and my family back to a baseline of general okayishness. To be clear, I certainly wasn’t winning awards for motherhood or achieving high-level success.
It’s tough to recognize unhealthy patterns that prevent you from caring for yourself. Look for them. Don’t let them sink in their claws. Tiny changes and small behavior shifts can help to make change happen. You deserve that energy. You are critical and essential.
Consider writing down how you want to feel at the end of the day, what you hope to accomplish, or a clear goal you want for your family. Aim for just one simple thought. Start small. Channel your energy there.
4. Simplify Your Stuff
I don’t do well with clutter. When my house feels overwhelming I’m a worse mom. Clutter scatters my brain.
Some people function perfectly fine in homes full of stuff and piles. Some people remember where everything is and see past any mess without issue.
I don’t have that superpower and have always tried to keep my environment simple. Most parents will tell you that what constitutes a clean or tidy house has a whole new meaning after having kids versus before they came into the world.
It is with some amount of hesitation that I realize I’m about to compare life before and after grieving a loss with life before and after having children. As much as I love my offspring, there is no denying that when one becomes a mother, her old life is left behind. While my children are the greatest joy of my life, having them certainly created change and some amount of loss.
It’s similar with grief. The amount of housework, chores, maintenance, and clutter you can handle after your parent dies is likely significantly less than what you easily managed before.
A spotless house isn’t the goal. Your well being, health, and sanity are the targets here.
Reduce your stuff. Look for the pain points. Find the most annoying or difficult areas of life in your house. Consider temporarily boxing or bagging up items if you could breathe easier or have less to do if they were out of the way. Or donate them if you’re feeling more confident that a simpler space is what you’ll need for a while.
After my mom died, I leaned into minimalism. I donated load after load of clothing and household items. I boxed up almost all of my kitchen stuff meant for entertaining. I needed to survive and wasn’t making meals that required fancy dishes.
In my grief, I only wanted the most basic items. No extras. Extras meant more work and more attention to things that felt unnecessary or frivolous. This was a personal choice at the time, because sometimes we need extra. Sometimes we need a frivolous, joyful thing in our life. So not everyone will feel peace if they clear off their mantle when their mom dies, but if it helps you, do it. At least give it a try.
Every fall my mother cut her rose bushes nearly to the ground before the long winter buried us in snow. The roses bloomed abundantly the next summer, even though she cut them down to almost nothing. The plants didn’t need old, spent branches to survive the snow. Maybe keeping the long stems would inhibit growth the next season? It seemed the roses had what they needed in their roots and could live better without the unnecessary branches decaying above.
In the same way, I trimmed my physical belongings, knowing that if I wanted that life again, it could bloom in another season. In deep grief I kept around me the possessions I could manage and what I needed to survive what felt like a long, cold winter.
5. Simplify Your Mental Load
It feels a bit dangerous perhaps to suggest to any mom that she simplify her mental load. Certainly if we could, we would, right?
At any given time, most moms are mentally storing a detailed inventory of the refrigerator, including which vegetables or food items are still good, which must be used immediately lest they rot, and which could possibly now be considered science experiments.
Many moms track multiple calendars for school, work, sports, clubs, birthdays, holidays, medical appointments, and the social lives of several humans (and pets!) at once.
Many moms juggle their careers, family, finances, and more while chaperoning field trips, coaching youth sports, or volunteering.
There’s often not much a mom can set aside. But where you can, while you’re in a place of deep loss, know that it’s okay to let go of commitments. If there’s anything you can relinquish or delegate, do it. Don’t feel bad asking for someone else to step up and take over a project or task.
Perhaps more importantly, lighten your actual mental load–the ones we moms put on ourselves like a quilt.
Let go of the high standards you set for yourself.
Let go of comparing yourself to others.
Let go of worrying and stressing about the future.
Allow yourself to breathe and be where you are.
6. Be A Kid Again
Becoming an adult was hard–paying bills, cleaning my apartment, keeping plants alive, and remembering when air filters needed to be replaced. Home ownership or renting adds things like scraping leaves and crud out of the gutters, flushing water heaters, and cleaning the dryer vent so it doesn’t fill with lint and start a fire.
Add children to your life and your list of responsibilities triples. Or more. The weight of what is important shifts dramatically.
As moms, we’re always actively alert or subconsciously aware that we hold the hearts, minds, and lives of our beloveds in our hands. The daily grind and weight of our role can wear us down. Moms often respond to this by finding new ways to innovate, to get stronger and smarter, but as we do more and carry more on our shoulders, we spread ourselves thinner.
We find a routine. We get in a groove. We live and die by the family calendar and start thinking that joy means we didn’t drop any balls this week.
But even moms need to find their souls. Especially moms. Moms need fully charged batteries. Moms need a full cup from which to pour. Moms need free time and space for the mind to wander. To play. To observe beauty in the world for the sake of enjoying it (not to post it on Instagram for others).
Moms like us need to remember how to be a kid again. Life isn’t about the grind or the lists we make. Adults need joy as much as children. We especially need moments with no responsibility and nothing hanging over our heads.
Start with something as small as singing in the shower or pausing while folding that mountain of laundry to crank up the volume and dance to your favorite upbeat hype music.
Do you love knitting? Painting rocks? Makeup? Art? Drawing comics? Board games? Video games? Baking for fun, not out of necessity? Take a small step and try that.
What could you do for hours, like a kindergartener sitting criss cross applesauce, happily stacking magnetic blocks? What feels fun and lifts you up inside? What energizes you?
It’s especially important that whatever you pick does not have a purpose–you aren’t trying to accomplish anything. You aren’t trying to do something practical, functional, or necessary. This is simply you trying to feel good and enjoy being alive.
This is a moment in which you aren’t serving anyone, except yourself. Be a kid again, a little bit every day, and try to make it a habit that sticks.
7. Parent Yourself
You’ve probably been so busy being an adult, a mom, maybe also an employee, an employer, a partner, a leader, or someone who manages, cares for, or is generally in charge of the well being of others that you’ve automatically reduced yourself to the lowest priority.
But when you’re a mom and your mom dies, no matter how old or mature or experienced you are, her death can pierce you right in the white hot center of your heart. There’s something profound and primal about a woman experiencing her mother‘s death.
It’s more than taking off our training wheels. The safety net has burned beneath us.
When my mom would fly across the country to visit, we often spent a morning hunting for quirky treasures and bargains at a thrift shop across the street from a locally owned Mexican restaurant–an authentic gem with amazing food.
Once we crossed the threshold into that colorful restaurant interior, I was a daughter at lunch with her mom. I could set aside my own stressful mom life inside that protective bubble. With my mom nearby and homemade guacamole, I could take my hands off the wheel. It was a respite. Oxygen. Safety. Joy and ease.
A while after she died, I took my daughter to that same thrift shop, and she asked if we could get enchiladas together at the restaurant across the street just like her Grammy and I used to do. At first, this idea seemed lovely.
We were seated across from one another in the booth, my daughter contentedly scooping guacamole and over salting the chips when I felt a chill crawl across the skin of my whole body. This creeping sense of unease settled in my gut and whispered in my mind. You are the mom now. She is gone. You will never be the daughter again.
I was the mother, and the mother only. My hands could never again leave the wheel.
Maybe it sounds silly to some people, but the fact that I’d never again sit with her in that restaurant, in our place, as a daughter brought tears to my eyes that I couldn’t contain. During what was supposed to be a casual lunch treat for my tween, I used every tissue in my purse and all the napkins at the table to wipe away tears that just wouldn’t stop.
I am not just a mother. I am a motherless mother, and there is something so heavy about being involuntarily given that title.
I’ve seen people on social media choose a single word to represent their goals or perspective for an upcoming year. I’ve watched influencers choose words like simplicity, gratitude, or abundance.
I thought about this trend after I lost my mom, because all of the thoughts, emotions, and feelings that rampaged through my mind and body like an unpredictable storm kept sending me, over and over, a one word message.
Untethered.
Untethered was my word for 2018. I didn’t choose my word. Untethered chose me. Like a double handed, full body swing of a sharp axe, my mother’s death severed my connection to the world. She was my anchor, and I felt like a loose balloon floating off into the sky. There are still days now that I’ll feel a strange sensation come over me and look around, feeling a little confused and out of place, as if I’m merely a visitor in a foreign land.
I know I can’t fully float away and give in to being fully untethered. I am a mother. I give my children food and comfort. I carve out space for their happiness. I make sure they rest and listen when they talk about what lights them up. I remind them how loved they are, simply because they exist.
If you’re a mom, you probably do things like this and more for your kids, too. So I apologize for adding more to your to do list, to your never ending pile of tasks, but this one is essential:
You have to parent yourself.
Those things you do for your children? Do them for yourself, too. If you’re like me, your mom is gone and no one is coming to rescue you, comfort you, or tell you that you matter. At least not how your own mom did. Nothing can replace her. We must parent ourselves.
We can’t actually float away like that loose birthday balloon. We can’t speak to the manager, because we are the manager and now we’re going to manage ourselves.
From the outside I look like a middle aged woman who’s got things (somewhat) figured out, but in my mind I’m still a scared and lonely kid who needs her mom. Is it the same for you?
Parent that kid version of yourself inside. Take care of her.
Listen when she needs a moment to cry.
Make sure she gets rest and eats enough.
Take her outside when she’s wallowing a bit too long in the dark. Don’t let her float away.
Tell her she’s loved and needed. Parent yourself in a way no one else can right now.
8. Trust Yourself
My mother was never particularly confident. She never claimed to be strong. She put herself last and downplayed her preferences. She withstood hardship and abuse and covered it up with a smile. She was a giver who gave until she turned herself inside out.
As an adult now I’m often indecisive or afraid. My mother was never particularly strong, although there is strength in enduring, and maybe that’s what she left for me. Maybe she left me the endurance she used to withstand painful situations and the fortitude she found to keep her deepest wounds from opening and spilling out.
It seems possible that when our parents die they leave things behind. Not just physical things, but intangible things like strength or courage or persistence—things they don’t need to take with them. Things we need here. They leave us qualities and abilities we can use to go forward.
My mom’s death devastated my world. It felt like so much had been taken from me, as if anything good was roughly excavated, leaving a cavernous, empty space in my heart. At the bottom of this echoing hollow, I’ve discovered a kernel of something new, like a small, glowing pebble. It wasn’t there before she died, but it’s here now, as if she left it behind on purpose.
Now that she’s gone, I trust myself a little bit more. I am a motherless mother. I’m it. Superman isn’t coming. Maybe what my mother left behind for me, that at first seemed like a grain of sand or small pebble, is actually a tiny seashell, because if I pay attention and press my ear close to listen I can hear it whisper.
You can do this.
You’re going to be okay.
Trust yourself.
Go.
