In Your Honor
For my mother, who taught me resilience without saying a word.
You are in this work—always.
There’s been a heaviness in my heart these past few years—one I couldn’t name until now. I think of you often. You—my mother, the woman I came to understand more deeply in that final chapter
After you passed, I was in a fog—numb, anxious, physically depleted. It’s taken three years to come back to myself.
I didn’t have the strength to hold my grief—let alone shape it into words.
I felt unmoored. So many pieces:
Leaving my career.
Being with you at the end.
Packing up your home.
The strange disorientation of returning to Brooklyn.
The discovery of siblings I hadn’t met—old news now, but at the time, too much to process.
You were gone. My siblings were in Norway.
And I was far away from all of it.
Fragments of me, still suspended
Cousins I hadn’t seen in over a decade welcomed my siblings—building new connections that felt natural between them, shaped by shared language, culture, being closer in age, and proximity.
I was still grappling with the shock of loss, of newfound family, and the unsettling quiet of my own grief.
I wanted to feel anchored, but nothing felt steady.
Norway trips were woven into our rhythm—so much so that you and Dad even considered raising me there. We’d stay with my grandparents first, then with your sister. My cousins were eager to practice their English with me, though my Norwegian may have suffered. Eventually, we returned to New York.
When we were in New York, life moved on.
My connection with the cousins faded—not out of intention, but from the quiet drift of time and distance.
There were occasional texts with your niece—the one you were closest to—but even that thread quietly dissolved after you passed.
With you gone, I was suddenly the outsider in a story that had moved on without me.
The American.
Separate.
Not estranged—but not included, either.
The absence of family deepened the loneliness of my grief.
I felt unwell for a long time after you passed—childhood panic attacks returned, waves of fatigue, stomach discomfort—symptoms that grew louder, demanding attention. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but I wasn’t functioning well. Nothing helped. I had to go inward to tune in.
And when my body finally began to steady—almost exactly three years after you were gone—I found a kind of quiet.
A space to sit with what I’d buried.
A space to write.
Writing through the complexity of our relationship—your quiet strength, the lessons I’ve carried, the grief I couldn’t hold until now—has helped me see you more fully, and myself more gently.
n this way, I honor your life—while finding my own path forward.
You had your own rhythm, flaws, strength, and quiet fire.
We were different in temperament.
You carried calm on the surface—disciplined, tidy, measured, contained.
I moved in waves of feeling—sensitive, expressive, endlessly curious.
I asked a thousand questions, replayed every moment in my mind.
You didn’t always know what to do with that kind of introspection—especially in a child.
You simply moved on.
Yet I understand now why you kept the surface calm.
Maybe I was a mirror for the parts of you you’d hidden away.
Perhaps you feared the world would hurt me—and didn’t know how to shield me.
In that tension, I see beauty: your strength was born of survival, and my sensitivity tied us together.
Discovering my siblings was disorienting—shocking, even.
But over time, I came to see that even the secrets you kept were part of your story—
A chapter you never got to fully close.
And this is how I’ve chosen to close it—
with understanding, not blame.
With compassion, not confrontation.
You got to glimpse the ending—just enough to see they were okay.
And I saw it brought you peace, even if you didn’t say it aloud.
I wasn’t ready then—but I carry that possibility now.
I’m not here to rewrite your story—only to gently continue it, with understanding and grace.
You had a spark early on—a fire I see more clearly now.
In your twenties, you boarded a ship to America with excitement and hope, leaving behind everything familiar.
Life unfolded differently than you may have planned—perhaps sooner than you hoped.
But still, you moved forward.
You rarely dwelled. You didn’t speak much about regret.
You were of a generation that believed in pressing on—and you did, with grace and grit. But I can see now how some of that strength was armor. There were things you didn’t talk about, burdens you carried quietly.
And yet, you still found lightness where you could. You never let the heaviness win. Not through grand gestures, but through steadfast presence.
You also found joy in simple pleasures—like watching baseball and golf. You loved the rhythm of the games, the calm precision of golf tournaments. You even got your neighbor hooked. The Masters was a favorite—you’d light up watching it.
I still remember how thrilled you were when I upgraded your TV. “Look how green it is!” you said, beaming at the screen. It wasn’t just about the sport—it was about having something to look forward to, something familiar and steady.
Not all at once. Not even intentionally. But in small, scattered moments—through routine, through rhythm, through resilience.
Your strength wasn’t just emotional—it was physical, remarkable, really. Time and again, you defied the odds.
One of those moments came after Dad passed.
You started over in your late 60s and rebuilt your life with courage and community.
I brought up the idea of you moving back to Norway—you waved it off:
“I’ve built a life here.”
And you had.
Over thirty years in Brooklyn.
That was your home.
You became a classic New Yorker—feisty in your convictions, skeptical of easy answers, and always clear about where you stood.
You cared for him in those final years with quiet loyalty, even when it wore you down. You didn’t want me to come back to help—you carried it yourself. But something shifted after he was gone. That’s when I began to see you more clearly—not just as my mother, but as a person.
There was a sweet, almost girl-like quality in you. I caught glimpses of it in the stories you told—like when you and your friend in Bay Ridge would sneak glances at the boys who worked at the nearby shop. You laughed like it had all just happened the day before. And that spark, that playful joy, never fully left you.
Like when that same friend & neighbor came to visit you in Apt 2K, and the two of you danced in the living room like teenagers. I just watched, taking it in. That lightness, that joy… it never left you. It just softened into something quiet and beautiful.
You battled chronic COPD for years—a condition that worsened slowly, quietly. And yet, you met it with grace. Your pulmonologist was baffled by your case, especially the extensive lung scarring for someone who hadn’t smoked or drank. He asked if you’d ever worked in a factory.
I wonder now if it was your body’s way of holding what had never been said—grief, shame, secrecy.
The weight of what was never freed—what remained unspoken—had to go somewhere.
Still, you loved life. And you were determined to live it.
I remember one moment near the end, when your condition had worsened and the doctors raised the topic of a DNR. I explained it gently to you, and in the softest voice, you said, “But I want to live.”
You were a fighter—always.
In 2014, we had our usual spat over nothing. It was our pattern—sharp, quick, unresolved.
Later that day, I got a call from your dear neighbor. She’d taken you to urgent care for a cut, but they were more concerned about your labored breathing. You were rushed to the ICU.
It didn’t sound good, and I was prepared for the worst.
I was inconsolable. That couldn’t have been our final words. I caught the first flight back to New York, desperate for another chance.
You were on life support, intubated. Shortly after I arrived, the tube was removed. I felt relief. But later that night, the hospital called—you’d been reintubated. Each day that passed, your chances of recovery grew slimmer.
I came to the hospital each morning to help you practice diaphragmatic breathing.
We watched the wave patterns on the monitor together, syncing breath with screen before the surgeon made his rounds to decide if you were strong enough to breathe on your own.
On the third day, he called it!. He was with his team of residents, and the entire room cheered.
We were all celebrating your life in that moment.
You smiled and said something witty, and I remember he coined you Lazarus.
And you always came back.
Remember the time I called you, and you said it wasn’t a good time?
The paramedic quickly took the phone out of your hand
I could hear you in the background, insisting you were fine, refusing to go. Still fighting, even then.
There was another time you fractured your pelvis. The doctor said you might not walk again.
But by then, I’d seen you rebound against the odds, so I thought to myself—we’ll see about that.
You were determined. I brought Thanksgiving dinner to the rehab center that year.
Eventually, you came home with a walker, graduated to a cane, and one day walked down to get the mail without either. A neighbor noticed—you didn’t need it anymore.
During many of your hospital stays, I always knew when you were “back online.” I’d call from the airport heading into Brooklyn, and I knew it was a good sign when you were asking for your comb and chapstick—on a mission to get home.
Then there was the time you casually mentioned that you were having a kidney removed the following week. Like it was no big deal. By the time I arrived to the hospital, you were ready to go home.
The hospital staff got such a kick out of you. You were in your eighties, and they couldn’t believe how quickly you bounced back. You and your neighbor were known in the building for it—people would often say, ‘They don’t make them like that anymore. I hope I have half their energy.’
You could never get out of the hospital.
And then there was the haircut story—one of my favorites.
It was during the pandemic. I was protective of you with your COPD. You wanted your hair done, and I reminded you that no salons were open. You were unfazed. I went out to run errands.
When I came home, there you were—seated at the dining room table, your 95-year-old neighbor standing behind you, giving you a trim like it was the most natural thing in the world. I had to laugh. I took a photo. That moment said everything about your determination.
You weren’t reckless. You just didn’t live in fear.
You lived in the moment. Always.
And you never lost your spark.
I still remember the day I teased you—“Did you meet a guy?”
—and to my surprise, you lit up and said, “Well, as a matter of fact…”
You told me about him with quiet excitement—a tall, single, handsome Norwegian from the reading room.
It had to be kept hush-hush, you said, and at the time, I didn’t fully understand. But now I get it. Some things aren’t meant to be shared with the whole world. Your generation didn’t roll like that.
You were genuinely excited to take him to my childhood friend’s wedding. I never met him—not by design, just timing. When I was in town, it was about us.
He belonged to your world beyond me—the one where you were simply a woman, not just a mother.
And I’m glad you had that.
And when the relationship fizzled—his commitment-phobia (at that age?)—you didn’t dwell.
You let it go. Moved on. That was your way.
We shared a lot of memories over the years.
We traveled to Norway to visit family, always carving out time for our own getaway in between. With family spread across different parts of the country, we made space for both connection and adventure—just the two of us.
I remember one cruise we took to the Bahamas. You loved the casino, and could make $5 last all night. You would often return to our room much later than I did.
You’d visit me in the Bay Area, and I still remember how you lit up riding the San Francisco cable cars. We once drove down the coast to Carmel and Hearst Castle, but it was clear—you preferred the buzz of the city. You always missed the chance to visit me in San Diego, but Dad wasn’t well at the time.
And when I came to New York, we’d paint the town—shows, dinners, exploring new neighborhoods for meals.
One winter, I booked us a hotel in the city just for fun. We were going to see Cirque du Soleil when a huge snowstorm hit. Most of the trains stopped operating, so it was a godsend. We walked for several blocks underground through the subway to get back to the hotel.
Those visits weren’t about parent-child obligation.
Even in our differences, we chose to share time, space, and experience
Over the years, your Apt 2K became a safe place to land.
After long work trips or chaotic stretches of life, I’d arrive like a whirlwind—sprawling my things everywhere as if to declare, I’m home.
You definitely softened over the years, and even found humor in it toward the end.
I’d collapse on the couch, exhausted but comforted.
You’d have my favorite foods ready. We’d settle into a familiar show—something simple, something grounding.
We had our cadence. Pizza nights. Errands I’d run. Walks along the avenue.
You had long stopped preparing big meals or saying grace at the table. You ate in your chair with a tray while we watched TV. Just like I do now.
You always refused my offers for an Uber, insisting you could walk or take the bus.
You’d just head toward the bus stop with determination and say, “See you later,” without looking back.
You always had somewhere to be—the activity center, the Norwegian reading room, church on Sunday, phone calls, or just a bench on 5th Avenue where you’d share a story and a laugh with a neighbor.
You were so delighted at your final birthday celebration—lunch with the ladies from church, and I had flown in.
The church, the Norwegian reading room, the activity center—these were your places.
You looked forward to weekly activities, luncheons, and game nights, especially bingo.
You had your rhythms.
You loved soft routines—crosswords, books in your favorite living room chair near the phone and kitchen.
You were frugal with groceries—shopping where the prices were better, clipping coupons.
And you were generous too—always donating to charities, remembering birthdays, quietly giving what you could.
And you never left the house without looking put together—lipstick on, jewelry just so, clothes carefully chosen and coordinated.
You didn’t need anything extravagant to feel content.
You just needed rhythm, connection, and something to look forward to
You didn’t chase happiness. You created it—through presence, care, and simplicity.
I didn’t always understand your rhythms growing up—but I came to find you later in life—when the sharp edges softened, and so did you.
So did we.
We always bickered, but we always showed up—without question.
And now, you’re with me in the smallest of routines.
Maybe this is how I’ve come to know you—not in the past, but in the pace I keep now.
Most mornings, I play Wordle while having coffee—always sending the results to a friend.
It’s a quiet ritual that reminds me of your crossword puzzles.
A small, steady rhythm to start the day.
In the evening, I slice up an apple—just like we used to do.
And maybe, in that way, I’m still sitting with you.
You lived with faith—not loudly, but quietly.
You said grace at dinner until the routines shifted.
You often read Bible passages at night, folding your hands and tilting your head slightly.
You didn’t talk much about God, but I saw it in your way—the lightness you chose, even when life had been heavy.
You made aging look like an art form—graceful, grounded, unapologetically real—despite the quiet weight of longstanding health struggles
You made presence feel powerful.
You showed me that dignity isn’t about perfection.
It’s about how we carry what life hands us—and keep going.
We were different, you and I—and somehow the same.
Maybe I always had these traits.
But I see you in me now—in my independence, my quiet strength, and the way I pause to enjoy warm sunshine.
In how I try to meet hard moments with steadiness and grace.
And in the way I hold my ground—unafraid to speak up or step away from what doesn’t feel right.
You lived with presence.
With grace.
With humor.
And in the end, with lightness.
I carry you with me in the small, quiet ways—in my routines, in my words, in the way I move through the world.
This writing is a space for us.
A way to keep the fire alive—the fight for voice, for dignity, for being seen.
My way of keeping the conversation going.
A quiet honoring of the strength you carried, and the light you passed on..
Not because everything was perfect. But because love lived here, too. Even in the silence.
“We are all just walking each other home.”
—Ram Dass
Related Life’ing Story:
The Long Way Home →
Want to explore how generational trauma is carried—and healed?
Breaking the Cycle: How to Recognize and Heal Generational Trauma →
