There are some losses you never get over. You only learn to live around them.
She Told Me She’ll Always Be With Me
It’s been 10 years. A whole decade since I lost her.
Yet somehow, not a single day goes by when I don’t feel her in my heart.
Every joy, every heartbreak, every small victory—I still turn, in my heart, to tell her. My mother. My safe place. My forever strength.
When she left, she didn’t say goodbye. She looked into my eyes and said,
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be in your heart. Whenever you miss me, just hug yourself… and you’ll feel my arms around you.”
I do that often. And I always will.
I often wrap my arms around myself when the ache of her absence becomes unbearable. Sometimes, it helps. Sometimes, I cry harder.
I lost my father when I was just 16. I was a girl still trying to understand the world, and suddenly I had to grow up. My mother became my shelter, my strength, my everything. She filled every gap left behind. She taught me to dream again. She walked beside me when I stumbled through my first job, my marriage, motherhood, and buying my first car. Her pride in me lit up my world; her proud eyes were my biggest reward. She was the only one who’d gently pat my back and whisper, “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you,” she used to say with a glowing face and shining eyes.
After she left, I haven’t heard those words from anyone. Not once.
And maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most—this quiet space where once there was always a warm voice reminding me I was doing okay.
Many people lovingly say to me, “I’m like your mother.” And I do appreciate the sentiment, truly.
But something in me quietly knows—no one can really be her.
Because a mother’s love never comes with expectations, conditions, or comparisons. And sadly, no matter how close someone may be, they sometimes say or do something that reminds me… no, this is not what a mother would do. A mother doesn’t expect, doesn’t compete, doesn’t leave you in doubt. Her love is not borrowed—it’s instinct, like breathing.
And in that moment, I miss her even more.
There’s no one who can take her place. And maybe that’s how it should be.
The house where my mother spent her last days is no longer there. My brother and his family have moved to a new place. It’s a lovely home, but for me, it doesn’t carry the essence of my mother. She never lived there, never filled its walls with her laughter, her fragrance, her warmth. So I don’t visit often—not because I don’t care, but because I don’t feel her there. That feeling of “Mom’s house” ended with her. Now, her home lives in my memories—in the aroma of a certain dish, in the sound of a song she liked, in the way sunlight falls a certain way on an empty chair. That’s where I find her now.
But when I close my eyes, I don’t remember her pain.
I remember her smile—strong, radiant, full of hope.
I remember her voice, telling me “Tu kar legi… Tu sab kar legi.”
(You’ll do it… You’ll do everything.)
I remember her not as someone I lost, but as someone I carry—every single day.
In me lives her courage. Her joy. Her energy. Her fierce love.
I am her daughter, and in many ways, I am still learning how to be as graceful, strong, and loving as she was.
“She wasn’t just my mother. She was my courage, wearing a smile,
My late-night tears turned into laughter,
My reason to believe in myself again.”
People say time heals. Maybe it does. But some wounds are meant to stay. They become part of who you are. I carry her in me, in everything I do. In how I care, in how I stay strong, in how I smile even when I’m breaking inside.
So, if you’ve lost your mother, know this:
You’re not alone. Hug yourself a little tighter. That’s not just you—it’s her.
And if you still have her—please, don’t take a single moment for granted.
I miss her. Every single day. But I also carry her spirit forward. For my children. For myself.
And maybe… in that way, she never really left.
Sometimes, I still talk to her.
Sometimes, I cry quietly into my pillow.
Sometimes, I wrap my arms around myself… and feel hers wrap around me too.
Because she promised me—she’s right here.
Forever.
