Her birthday is today

It will be the second one since she passed.

A little over a year ago, my mother died after living for years with dementia. By the end, her short-term memory had faded, and eventually even her ability to communicate began to slip away. The woman who once spoke with me a couple of times a month from across the country slowly disappeared into a quieter version of herself.

For most of my adult life, we lived far apart. We saw each other every couple of years and talked on the phone each month. Our conversations were kind, warm, and familiar. We talked about everyday life. Family updates. The small details of living. But there was one thing we never talked about. The past.

I have always loved my mother

That truth has never been complicated for me. What was complicated were the circumstances of our childhood. The choices she made created a great deal of instability and pain for us kids. I was parentified at a very young age, stepping into responsibilities that did not belong to a child. I was taught to keep my feelings inside and never bring up anything uncomfortable.

That early role followed me into adulthood. It shaped my nervous system, my relationships, and the way I moved through the world. For decades, I have been in therapy, slowly learning how to understand what happened, regulate my emotions, and reconcile the past with the life I have built.

My mother, however, did not want to revisit difficult things. She preferred peace over discomfort. Silence over confrontation. And because of that, my brother and I carried the weight of those experiences mostly on our own.

There were no conversations where our pain was acknowledged

No moments of shared reflection.
No apologies.
No compassionate witnessing.

No closure. We simply carried forward.

For many years, I quietly held onto the possibility that one day we might talk about it. That perhaps with enough time and maturity, we could sit together and open that door. Not to blame. Not to accuse. But to feel compassion for one another, to acknowledge the past, to simply understand.

Then dementia arrived

As her memory faded, I realized something slowly and painfully. The window for those conversations was closing. Each year, her world became smaller. Certain memories disappeared. Her ability to process deeper discussion slipped away. Eventually, the door closed entirely. She passed away, and those conversations never happened.

For a long time, I felt like I had missed something important

Like I had missed the bus. Missed the moment. Missed the one opportunity where closure might have been possible. But grief is complicated, especially when love and pain live side by side.

I still love my mother deeply. That love did not disappear because of the past. But there is also sadness for what we never spoke aloud. Sadness for the understanding that never had a chance to exist between us.

Her birthday stirs all of that

Love. Loss. Tenderness. Regret. Compassion. A quiet longing for something that never came.

What I have come to understand is that closure does not always arrive through the person who hurt us. Sometimes we have to create that peace inside ourselves. Through reflection. Through therapy. Through compassion for our younger selves. Through accepting that some conversations will never happen. But if there is one thing this experience has taught me, it is this.

Have the difficult conversations while you still can

Say the hard things with kindness. Ask the questions that matter. Allow space for honesty, even when it feels uncomfortable. Because time moves quietly and windows close more quickly than we expect. One day, the door may no longer be open. And when that moment comes, all that remains are the things that were said and the things that were left unsaid. If you still have the opportunity, choose courage.

You may never get that moment again. ❤️