But who am I without this?

I really thought the hardest Mother's Day for me would be the one after my mom died.

But I was wrong.

It turned out this year, that the worst one is still the one when she was alive, still physically present.

I was absolutely unprepared for the kind of pain I felt last Mother's Day. I sat beside her hoping something I said would spark some memory, some kind of recognition. But, nothing did.

I still wasn't her only daughter. I still wasn't her last-born. I still wasn't her favorite (as my brothers have always claimed me to be.)

I was just someone sitting in her room, albeit someone making her laugh hysterically, which gave us both joy.

So when I said last year that it was the worst Mother's Day, I wasn't being dramatic. I was just being honest.

This year, Mother's Day was just different.

There was no visit to plan.

There was no wondering if she’d recognize me. Just this once.

There was no shopping for a new gift that she would like, that someone else would be holding the next day. (There is no personal property in memory care, and my mom and the "relocating" of all the artificial plants to her room were evidence.)

My mom is now gone.

Mother's Day will never be the same for me. And while I miss her deeply, I take solace knowing that dementia isn't taking anything from her any longer.

• She's not confused or scared.

• She's not wandering around strange hallways.

• She's not always feeling like there is "something" she should be doing.

• She's not waking up each morning without her home, her cat, her plants, her family.

The grief will stay here; it just feels "less" than I expected. But I think that's because I've already been grieving the loss of her for so long.

So, I didn’t spend the day crying or unwell. I didn’t feel a sting whenever I saw a red cardinal or a Disney shirt she would have loved.

Instead, I sat on the patio, coffee in hand, watching the squirrels, refilling the bird feeders, making sure Horatio the Lizard had fresh water. Went to brunch with The Husband. Spent the evening watching a movie with my daughters, one in the living room beside me, the other on a video call.

And I began to think, "Who am I now? Without this role?"

For over 30 years, a large part of my identity has been wrapped around the needs of other people. Their needs have dictated my time and energy around their schedules, their comfort, their literal survival. Or, making sure the end of their life was as dignified as possible.

Now, that part of me is a bit quieter. I still offer care, compassion, share my knowledge, and give of my resources to those I love and who need help.

But I'm not providing the same kind of care these days.

Not for my mom.

Not for The Youngest, who’s planning her wedding beautifully and independently.

Not for The Oldest, who's building an amazing business around helping others succeed.

Not for a dog or cat. (I still have the squirrels, the birds, and Horatio the Lizard, but that's not the same; they refuse to snuggle up in my lap.)

Not even for The Husband, who is wonderfully self-sufficient and independent. (My caring for him reaches beyond activities of daily living and more into the realm where we move in sync for the benefit of each other.)

Reggie and Horatio joining me for a contemplative moment.

I have more time now, physically and mentally. And I don't always know what to do with it.

I've worked as a freelance editor and writer for almost three years now. I started my business specifically so I could have time freedom to be a long-distance caregiver. But I'm only now learning what that work feels like when I'm not doing it in the places I've been living in—

• Between coordinating care via phone, video calls, or emails.

• After long drives back from memory care.

• In the everyday, when I was so terrified of seeing "Valencia Hills" appear on the caller ID.

These days, I can sit longer with a copywriting draft and actually hear myself think again.

That doesn't mean I'm suddenly more productive or full of creative, new ideas. It just means there's more room in my brain for thought. And maybe that's the biggest difference.

It's not about more output as much as it is the mere presence of mind.

My massage therapist, Holly, said it's like I'm looking through a different pair of glasses. For me, this new way of looking at things is a bit hard. Hard to see through different lenses, because I've never seen life quite this way, as it could be for just me, with so many new possibilities.

It's not always comfortable, this new space. But it’s where I'm at. And I’m learning how to live better in it, how to write, rewrite, and edit more clearly.

So, I think that's what this season is going to be like for me: a slow, methodical revision of the life I had before.

I'm not rewriting everything, just adjusting to the new.

However my next role ends up being written.

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