I’ve always hated the common interview question “where do you see yourself in five years?” I never had an answer for this question, because it seemed like life in the future was too full of possibilities. Then my mother died, and life felt like someone had blocked out the sun. The ground upon which I stood was hopelessly unstable. If someone had asked me that same question shortly after she died, I wouldn’t have an answer, because truly there was nowhere to go. I saw no opportunities. There were no paths forward or sideways or in any direction. Life simply stopped. Where would I be in five years? I thought for sure I’d be in the same spot, spinning and spiraling, too dizzy to see out of the fog of grief. My mother’s death snipped the thread that held me to the earth, to a life where I could see possibilities ahead.

All my life my family struggled. I grew up poor and suffered through childhood trauma that I don’t feel comfortable unpacking here, but I mention it because from an early age I cried while staring in my bedroom mirror, swearing to my small reflection that someday I’d get out and live a better life. Someday I’d live in a house with heat and without holes punched in the walls. Someday I’d have money to buy enough food and wouldn’t have to hide in my closet under a pile of clothes out of fear. Someday I’d have love and money and everything would be okay.

The point is, I’d always wanted to be more. To be better. And when she died, all of that went away. I didn’t have love. I wasn’t making money. And probably worst of all, I felt unsafe and unstable in a new and frightening way. I was abandoned and alone, carrying the responsibilities of being a mother yet floating like a rudderless ship with nothing to anchor me securely to reality.

I wanted to give up. In many ways I did. I stopped caring about myself–never getting enough sleep, eating too much or flipping to starve my feelings, and letting depression keep me sedentary. I stopped seeking joy. I didn’t want to see my life in five years. It was sure to be dismal.

Life is scary. Death makes it terrifying. I was frozen in time. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. I wasn’t even near the tunnel–I was in a deep hole.

For days and months and even years now since my mom died, I’ve thought about grief and how it changes us. I wanted grief to motivate me and inspire me to change my life, like suddenly my movie montage scene would happen where I’d get my makeover, harness my true talent, and success, happiness, and true enlightenment would surely follow.

It’s been almost six years of grief so far, and I haven’t made the montage happen. I’m stubborn and sad and apparently reserve the right to learn life lessons the hard way, because any motivation that has grown out of grief hasn’t swelled up suddenly like a summer storm, as I’d hoped.

My brand of inspiration trickled in like a slow, hidden leak over several years. At first it was undetectable, quietly creating a tiny path like a thin stream of water cuts through rock. But as time progressed around me, some sort healing must have been happening beneath the surface. For almost six years I’ve layered emotional bandages over my grief, hoping to keep the hurt from getting out or getting worse, and there have been small moments when I’ve poked at my skin to find that it has grown thicker or stronger or at least healed what used to be raw, gaping wounds into tender burns covered over with new, shiny pink skin.

Some days I feel like I could take a step forward and life just might be okay. If you just lost your mom or dad, this time will feel so far away for you. It might seem impossible. You may not believe me now, but think of me like your pen pal from the future. There are days ahead when you, too, will be able to take a step forward. There is a day in your future when you will inhale and feel hopeful. Or maybe even happy. It is possible.

Sometimes we think of new dreams. Sometimes our world is reset for us. Where we might be in five years is someplace we’ve never imagined. When you start to claw your way out of raw grief and begin to see the sun again, the light that you see ahead might be a fresh, new light. Sometimes in grief our train jumps the tracks underground without us knowing. You might be forging ahead in a completely different tunnel than where you began, and the light at the end of that tunnel breaks the surface in an entirely new place.

You might reinvent yourself. You might feel like someone new already. When my mom died I remember for months being hooked on the sad thought that I wasn’t a daughter anymore. That part of me died with my mother. It’s taken me perhaps too long to see myself in the mirror again. Oh, there you are! You actually still exist! You seem different. Who are you now?

You’ll know when you’re ready to meet that new you and give yourself a chance. You don’t have to be the same person you were before, and trying to be the old you might be a lost cause anyway. Look and see if you’re feeling a slow leak of inspiration and let yourself take that first step forward.

I wallowed deeply for a long time after my mom died, and when people told me things like “your mom wouldn’t want you to be sad”, I instantly blew them off. That sort of beyond the grave platitude didn’t work on me. I wasn’t inspired or motivated by their tough love or whatever intent was behind telling me that my dead mom would want me to be happy. I didn’t believe it and I wasn’t ready. I was sad in all caps, all of the time.

Feel free to completely ignore me as well if you wish. However, I’ll tell you one tiny thing that might make a difference. I’m not telling you to “be happy” because your deceased parent would want it. I’m here to give you a gentle nudge when you feel that first tiny spark of inspiration. When you feel it, even the tiniest bit hopeful or motivated, take that step out of care for yourself.

If your mom or dad cared about you, I urge you to take that little step. You don’t have to be happy. You can keep right on feeling sad for now if you need. Where you can turn the tide is to care for yourself, even if it’s a fraction of how much your parent cared for you or how much you care for your kids now.

Give yourself a fraction. Care for YOU. Even just a little. Even just one step back into the sunlight, because you are a new person and you are worth it.

You don’t have to wait for the whole movie makeover montage. You don’t have to wait until you can achieve any of your old goals. The things the old you needed to accomplish in life are simply constructs you built because of your memory, your history, and the ideals that society imposed upon you.

We create ourselves. We can also recreate ourselves.

Simply acknowledging that you feel even a minuscule zing of strength or inspiration is enough. Channel the energy of that zing into yourself. Invest in yourself. Your mom or dad would want you to be happy, of course, but let’s begin at the beginning, in shallow water where we can stand. Your parent would want you to take care of yourself. To care for yourself. The smallest amount of momentum can inch you forward even on darker days.

This new life happens one step at a time. We must celebrate even the smallest victories.

Life may feel heavy and busy with work obligations, bills to pay, and laundry to wash. Social pressure and social media might make us feel like we have to be someone we’re not, that we need to play a role, or that we need to build a trendy, highlight reel style life to post for all to see. What losing my mom has taught me is that none of that is true. Yes, we have to pay taxes and buy groceries, but so much of the rest can fall away.

We have ourselves, our souls, and the universe. We have choices and don’t have to keep walking a path that doesn’t feel right anymore. Death, especially a big, impactful death like losing your parent, teaches us that life is not at all what we expected. The future may feel like stepping onto a new planet, and that’s okay.

When you feel that little zing of inspiration, take a step forward. Run. Be unusual. Dare to look into the future with your new eyes. We can’t go back, so let’s move forward together and see where it takes us.