Today has been strangely hard.

Until about 5 minutes ago, I really didn’t understand why I’ve been feeling really bleh today.  I made an excellent first-timer Eggs Benedict for my son this morning.  I had back-to-back phone calls with colleague-friends who are amazing. I got to have lunch with my sister-friend whom I love dearly. I got a decent amount of work done. I even watched the end of Toy Story with my little girl before tucking her into bed.

It was a good day.

So why was I feeling so bad? And why was I doing the things that I know I do when I’m trying to avoid being with something.

Then I realized that tomorrow is February 1st which means Monday is February 3rd.

My mother died on February 3rd.

Today is a Friday that my son has off from school.  He hurt his ankle yesterday and was limping around the house today.

My mother died on the Friday between semesters, a student in-service day. She had hurt her ankle earlier that year, twisting it in a hole as she ran to see me start a race.

There have been so many sudden deaths recently, of young parents, before their time.

My mother was 56 when she died.  I was 16. She was healthy (still recovering from her major ankle sprain, but otherwise fine) and a fighter.  She was everything to me, the person who knew me best and the person who I always seemed upset with.

Until she was gone.

So, I took a deep breath and said to my grief, “Welcome home. I’ve been expecting you. You’re a little early this year.”

My mother died in a car accident on February 3, 1995.

It will be 25 years since she died on Monday.

Some days, it still literally feels like yesterday.  Or today, even.

Some days, it feels like it’s been 25 years.

Today, it feels heavy, but calm. Sad and present, familiar.

Today, it feels collective, as my local community still grieves a very public, very sudden loss less than a week ago.  And yet, it feels private, this version of grief that I have been carrying for 25 years.

Right now, I am breathing.  I am taking this moment in.  I am sitting.  My grief is sitting alongside me. I am waiting for more words to come or for me to know that it is time to end this post.

Be gentle. Make space for my friend, my grief, my survival. Make space for me.

There are battles we don’t see.  And there are those we see but don’t know.

I’ve learned to make space for it all.