The week my mom passed away after her long, brutal fight with liver cancer felt unreal, like the world kept moving while mine completely stopped. Grief didn’t arrive quietly—it crashed in waves, stealing sleep, breath, and any sense of normal time. Every room suddenly felt louder in its silence. Every memory carried weight. Losing her wasn’t just losing a parent; it was losing the person who believed in me before I even knew who I was supposed to become.
My mom had a special way of loving me. She didn’t just say she supported my passions—she showed it, over and over, in ways that now feel sacred. She paid attention to what made my eyes light up and treated those things as important, even when they might have seemed small to anyone else. What brought me joy mattered to her simply because it mattered to me. That was her gift: making me feel seen.
Nothing showed that more than how she embraced my love for wrestling. She never brushed it off as “just a phase.” Instead, she leaned into it fully. The wrestling figures lined up on shelves, the new game every year, the excitement leading up to my very first live wrestling show—she was there for all of it. She celebrated my excitement like it was her own, cheering my happiness louder than anyone else ever could.
Even during her illness, when cancer took so much from her body, it never took her heart. She still asked about the things I loved. She still listened. She still cared. Watching her fight was both heartbreaking and inspiring. Liver cancer is relentless, but so was she. She faced pain, fear, and exhaustion with a strength that still leaves me in awe. She didn’t fight just for herself—she fought for the people she loved.
Now, the quiet is different. The house feels heavier. The joy feels sharper because it’s mixed with absence. There are moments when I instinctively want to turn and tell her something—about a match, a moment, a win—only to remember she’s not physically here anymore. And that realization hurts in a way words can’t fully describe. Missing her isn’t a single emotion; it’s a thousand small aches stacked together.
But love doesn’t end when life does. Everything I do from here on carries her with it. Every step forward, every dream chased, every moment of joy—I carry it for her. She built the foundation of who I am, and that can never be taken away. I love you, Mom. More than words could ever hold. Everything I do is for you. ♥️
