Today would have been my mother’s 89th birthday.
I imagine her rising early, dressing for Mass, smiling softly as she prepared for a simple family celebration. Nothing extravagant—just love gathered around a table.
In my heart, I believe she is in heaven now, celebrating with my father, my sisters, and my daughter. I picture them together—whole, joyful, complete.
When I look at her photograph, my heart aches in a way that feels both tender and unbearable. Tears come without permission. I miss her deeply—not only her presence, but the chances I let slip away. The birthdays I could have spent by her side. The songs I could have sung to her. The flowers I could have placed in her hands.
Distance and the busyness of life became reasons—reasons that now feel small against the weight of regret. Important days passed, and I was not always there. That truth humbles me.
I miss her laughter—the kind that filled a room.
I miss her stories—the ones I thought I would hear again.
I miss sitting beside her, talking about ordinary things that no longer feel ordinary at all.
So how do you celebrate someone you’ve lost but loved beyond measure? Is it only through tears? Surely love must be more than sorrow.
I do not believe my mother would want to see me crushed by grief. Love, after all, is not meant to imprison the living.
So today, I chose to celebrate her the way she would have celebrated herself. I went to church. I bought flowers and a small cake. I cooked sotanghon, her favorite dish. In the quiet rhythm of these simple acts, I felt her near—not in body, but in memory, in habit, in love.
These gestures cannot bring her back.
But they bring me closer to who she was—and to who I am because of her.
As a parent now, I see more clearly. I want my children to remember me not only on birthdays or anniversaries, but in the everyday moments when they need strength, comfort, or guidance. I want to be present—not perfectly, but intentionally.
To honor my mother, I choose to do better.
To check in more often.
To listen more closely.
To be calmer, more patient, more understanding.
To respect their feelings and opinions.
To encourage their efforts.
To care for myself—mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually—so they have a steady foundation to lean on.
I cannot reclaim the moments I missed with my mother.
But I can shape the moments I still have with my children.
Growth is my offering to her.
Presence is my gratitude.
Love, lived forward, is my remembrance.
And I hope that somewhere in eternity, my progress brings her peace—
and that she smiles, knowing her love continues through me.
Thank you for reading my story. I wish you all a colorful month of March filled with love and happiness. If you could please help me pray for world peace.