The day began like any other Wednesday. I got out of bed, made coffee, and got dressed for another day at my desk. The routine felt safe and familiar. Tagged assets were in, and a national campaign was ready to launch. It seemed like it would be a busy day, but nothing unusual.

Then the phone rang. My sister in Jackson was calling. She never calls this early on a weekday. For a moment, I thought about letting it go to voicemail, just another interruption in a normal workday.

But I answered anyway.

That small choice changed everything. After that, nothing felt normal. Just hearing her voice, shaky and scared, told me life would never be the same.

After nearly twenty years of launching campaigns, I suddenly forgot how to do it. My mind just stopped working. What should have taken a few hours dragged on all day. The routines I used to count on felt wrong. Even the easy things felt too hard, as if the world had stopped and I couldn’t move.

Mom was suddenly gone, and I couldn’t believe it. Just days before, I had talked to her. She had seemed fine. It was the same drama on the circle, nothing unusual, just the usual stories and laughter. No warning, no sign that our last conversation would really be the last.

Even music sounds different now. Old bubblegum songs from the sixties and seventies, like “Oh Sweet Pea,” “Dizzy,” or “Ragdoll,” make me cry. Songs that once made me smile now just hurt, reminding me of times with her that I can’t get back.

But I miss the little things most. The calls with Mom while I drove around town, running errands. The simple talks, the laughter, the way her voice made everything better. Now I just replay those memories, wishing I could have one more.

Going back to work after the funeral felt surreal. My colleagues asked why I was back so soon and why I didn’t take more time. Could I have stayed away longer? Yes. Should I have? Probably. But I don’t know how to stop working. My mom had a philosophy about work: you work sick, work tired, work hurt; you work until you physically can’t. She lived by it, and in many ways, it became how I coped. Working kept me sane in the days after the funeral.

Losing my mom changed everything. Some days, the grief is sharp and overwhelming; other days, it sits quietly in the background. What gets me through is the love and resilience she instilled in me. I hear her voice in my head when I push through a hard day, face a challenge, or miss her more than usual.

Grief has no true ending, but I’m learning to move with it rather than against it. The day everything changed reminded me how fragile and precious life truly is. It taught me to treasure the small things—conversations, songs, shared routines—and to show up for the people I care about while I have the chance.

Most of all, it taught me that my mom’s spirit and lessons remain with me, woven into the person I am. Even on the hardest days, I know she’d want me to keep moving forward, hold on to joy where I find it, and love others fiercely—just as she did.