My Safety Net Ripped Out From Under Me: The Day My Mom Passed Away Unexpectedly

Alicia and baby Olive circa 1996

My mom was probably my favorite person in the entire world. I grew up in a split household where one parent was practically demonic while the other was my angel.

My mom made sure to continuously remind her children that she would love us for who we were, no matter what. So much so that I never actually came out to her when I realized I was a lesbian—I never felt like I had to. She had a way of making me feel safe in who I was, and I cannot thank her enough for allowing my siblings and me to bloom in this way.

Watching her interact with people was always interesting—no one seemed to dislike her. It was like she could connect with anybody (that's that Libra Sun). She could talk her way in and out of anything. And the way she loved people—whether romantically or platonically—she showed up as much as she could for so many different people, in so many different situations. She was really, really special.

This isn't to say my mom and I didn't have our problems either— like any other parent-child relationship, we've had our difficult moments. But I would do anything to turn back time to be with her again, even for just a minute.

In August 2021, on what began as an ordinary day, my life split into a before and after.

It was only the second day of my last fall semester at my university. I couldn't wait to get home from work and take a break before I had to get to class.

I had just made my way home, gotten out of my car and turned the corner onto my street when my phone rang. It was my aunt and she never called me. That's when she told me: my mom had passed away.

I remember the shock of it all—the way those words made no sense, the way they cracked open my worst childhood fear. Growing up autistic with severe anxiety, I'd always worried about losing her. She was the only one who could talk me down, who could quiet my racing thoughts and make the world feel safe again. That day, the safety I built my life around vanished in an instant.

I mention this to a lot of people—and I always get this response of "Well, of course, she was your mom," but my mom had this magic ability to convince anyone to chill out in even the most heightened of situations. It was like she was born to relieve people from fear. It had been her talent.

I remember just stopping and standing there in the middle of the sidewalk. I am absolutely sure I didn't comprehend a single thing my aunt had said. I remember repeating, "my mom???" I thought maybe she meant her mom. The sentence potentially including my mom didn't make any sense to me.

I essentially ran into my apartment, and when I got inside, I just sat down and stared— because what the actual fuck is my life?

I called my best friend, who immediately knew something was wrong and asked them to take me to her. We both just sat in that car ride in complete disbelief.

Later, I went home with my then-partner and she stopped somewhere to get me flowers and that's when I cried more than I think I have in my entire life. What a loss—what a pain I never could've imagined. I had no idea.

Even worse, there was no known reason why this happened, no clear diagnosis of what happened that day—what took her from us. She had some medical problems, but none we ever thought would go this far. None that equated to whatever might've happened on this day.

Alicia on her wedding day circa 1995.

I've always imagined losing a parent would be devastating—maybe even beyond that. I pictured my mom growing old, preparing for what was coming, and me having time to say goodbye. I was able to do that with my grandma: I went to see her, held her hand, made sure she knew I loved her. But losing my mom without warning, being robbed of any potential time left with her—it was a nightmare.

The weeks after were a blur. I stayed home in bed for a month. I thought about how my phone rang when I turned that corner onto my street—I kept ruminating, thinking—I had to have walked into another dimension when I made that turn. I had to have ended up on another timeline. This was not my timeline. This was impossible.

There is a unique kind of loneliness that comes when you lose a parent. It's like someone ripped some safety net out from under you—one you didn't even realize existed in such a heavy, heavy way. Suddenly, there's nothing between you and the hard ground of the world. Nothing mattered. Absolutely nothing in this life mattered anymore. I have no idea who I am without that lady.

It's been four years now, and the grief hasn't sunk—it's just become a part of me. Every day still feels longer than the last. I miss her in ways I can't put into words, in ways that never really fade. But one of the things that's gotten me through is remembering how much my mom and I loved the paranormal. We talked about ghosts since—I swear—I could speak. It was our thing—our shared curiosity. We loved talking about what might come after this life, about spirits, and the unseen, about how love could clearly outlast even death. That shared interest has been my lifeline. It keeps me believing there is something after this, that this goodbye isn't forever.

I know when it's my time, she'll be there waiting for me. Maybe that's survival, maybe that's just the kind of hope grief demands—but I believe it and I need to.

There's no neat bow to wrap around all of this, no clever question to leave hanging in the air. Just me, missing my mom, still carrying her love, and holding onto the one truth I feel in my bones: she's waiting for me on the other side, and we will find each other again.

I know not everyone gets along with their moms. But if you do—please hug her for me, call her for me.

Missing you forever, Alicia. (1971-2021)