I have come to crave this time of year--the weight of winter and lingering reminders of how much loss December is tinged with is like a wet down coat I can't wait to peel away. And yet, May ushers in it its own heartsickness. My mom's birthday is May 19th, usually the week after Mother's Day... two days of my year that are undoubtedly some of the hardest of my year, every year. My Mimi and my mom both died in December, almost exactly three years apart. Mimi practically raised me and my brother when we were really tiny, and honestly, losing her was every bit as hard--if not harder--than losing my own mother. And lately, my mind has been inundated with memories of the two of them... and it's just too much to wrangle. I'm a little bit of a shell--magnified by the endless racks of pink and Mother's Day cards and email reminders from florists that DON'T FORGET: MOTHER'S DAY IS MAY 8TH! It happens every year: the month of May just knocks me off my feet.

Wednesday after work, I just wanted to be outside with my little dog. To decompress, to get away from all screens, to do something else. Mother's Day is looming, and I just wanted to think about anything else. Anything at all. Upon surviving the commute, I robotically climbed into my running shoes, grabbed my headphones and her leash, and we moseyed to the greenway. I resisted the desire to jam the earbuds into my ears and check out--and instead stayed attune to the cadence of her little paws grazing the walkway. I fixated on the cardinals that seemed to flitter alongside us (cardinals always, always remind me of my Mimi). An uncharacteristically cool 57 degrees, we got lost in the endless sprouts of clover sidelining the trail, in the tangy familiarity of dill and honeysuckle, in the damp haze of the muddy earth at our feet. The earbuds dangled from my neck, unused, as we walked along the riverbank in sweet, relative silence.



It was the exact prescription I needed for that hour--an unexpected sanctuary that I was pulled into--if for no other reason than to break out of my routine. To be surrounded by the things that remind me of home, of my family, of two of the women who were at the forefront of molding me into who I am. Between the honeysuckle and cardinals, the springtime wrapping itself around us, I skipped back home and felt almost instantly better. Like this phase of life really is part of a master plan, and you know, maybe, it's not so bad. That I don't have my mom and grandmother anymore, that the memories of them aren't enough, but that they're mine--the memories and the women. I'll always be able to recenter and realign, and ultimately, I'm not straying too much from who I am. That it's all okay, and I'll always get back to me. Just channel your inner Scarlett O'Hara and take a deep breath, Megan.

It makes logical sense to think that the older you get, the more wisdom you attain, and the more solid you feel as a human being, an individual, who you are meant to be. I'm here to tell you that in a lot of ways, I'm more lost at 30, than I was at 20--even if that sweet ignorance wasn't exactly wisdom, it was enough to make me think I had it all together. In most ways, I am loving this stage of life... it isn't dripping with the murkiness of my 20s, I'm living life in a city I truly love, surrounded by deep and meaningful friendships, making big and little plans, and I have a better grip on what I want out of my time on earth.

But the past six months have been hard.

Being single for the first time since high school--not ultimately fun. Dating? An utter joke. Reigniting the beloved relationship I spent seven years in? Challenging (but good). Being homesick, shedding bad friendships, still trudging my way through a new-ish career path, and hoping I'll end up where I want to be in this life? All so overwhelming, to put it mildly. And when my mind trails back to the fact that my mom and grandmother are dead, it's all just too much. Way too much. It's been years after they both passed away, and typing the word "dead" in the same sentence where I reference these two feisty and women is enough to take my breath away... and now, the tears won't stop.



All of that to say, I have had some magnificent women in my life. My stepmom is an exceptionally strong and kind-hearted soul, and directly responsible for my becoming a bookworm and a bargain shopper, and will always be one of the first people I'd call in a crisis--especially about dog matters or cooking. ;) She is and has always been very good to me.

But still... the hurt is still raw when I remember them for more than a passing moment. Mom and Mimi. Connie and Paullettia. I baked a hummingbird cake on Wednesday night when we returned from our walk--my Mimi made them when I was little. Last night? I watched "Pretty in Pink" as I finished a workout--my mom lived for those quintessential 80s movies, and had a Molly Ringwald thing about her. I listen to the Eagles a lot when I miss my mom. I bake or sew when I miss my Mimi. I do all of these things in a desperate attempt to keep them alive somehow, to cling to the happier memories--the tangible things that I can clutch. To keep them here with me.

Back to our Wednesday walk. Halfway through the walk, we stumbled across a shattered tree trunk--an obvious result of the earlier thunderstorm. And it was a little too proverbial: broken bits strewn across an otherwise familiar path I've been navigating time and again. I stood over the wet wood shards for a while, actually laughed to myself at the imagery, stepped over the mess in a decision to stop taking everything so seriously. To stop thinking I can handle it all, to cut myself a little more slack. Deep breath: it'll be okay. And the love and wisdom I gained from these two incredible ladies will forever live within me too.




I know there's more than a handful of "not everyone has a Mom" articles floating around the internet... but I'm tasking you with remembering those who don't have someone to buy flowers for, or who'll be sitting at a graveside, instead of a brunch table or church pew. Mother's Day is way, way tougher on me than my mom or Mimi's birthdays, or even the anniversaries of their deaths. I think the heartbreak stems from watching seemingly everyone around me--my own friends now included--on this one exclusive, springtime Sunday, dedicated to loving and adoring moms everywhere. It's really hard for a lot of people... even years after they said their goodbyes. Just please keep that in mind as you're buying the gifts and planning the surprises. it goes a long, long way with the ones who aren't hugging their moms this weekend.

And that said? Happy, happy Mother's day to everyone, near and far. Moms, stepmoms, grandmoms, godmoms and second moms, new moms, dads who play moms, dog moms, those waiting to be moms and those who want so desperately to be moms. So much love to you... momming is hard, and you deserve all of the love and affection on this Sunday, and everyday. :*

I've lived a little bit of life. I've had some hurt. A lot of hurt, it feels like sometimes. I firmly believe that every individual's life is a collaboration of those few mandated chapters--grade school, college, marriage for some, death for all--and those handful of hit-you-hard life events that completely shape you as a human being whether you ask for it or not. For some people, those overlap. For some, they don't.

The reminders of those milestones come at me at the most unexpected times. And when my life slows down, I am ever conscious of them.

I lost my grandmother, my Mimi around New Years 2010. Losing my mom in 2012 resulted in this deep-rooted pain that is still evolving, still confusing and unclear. But losing my Mimi brought a shocking heartache that is truly unparalleled. Four-and-a-half years later? Sometimes the hurt is as raw as it was the moment I found out she was gone.

She was only 62, seemingly healthy, although noticeably slower as she aged. She had a heart attack in the middle of the night, and by the time she realized what was happening, the drive to the hospital was a bit too far to save her. We'd spent months worrying about my Papa's heart--he'd had a pacemaker put in after some constant issues... and of course, Mimi was his stronghold through every bit of it. Christmas came and went, and I saw her for the last time just two days before she died. We spent the evening laughing over a card game (that she cheated at), and she happily agreed to alter a stack of dress pants for me. I remember hugging her close on the back porch when she walked me out, and waving to her silhouette as it glowed in the window as she stared out at me as I pulled out of their driveway into the dark winter night. We had all reiterated time and again how we were so ready for 2009 to be over--it had been a really shitty year. Illness, job loss and death swept our family over the latter half of '09. Two days after my last night with her, I was learning the ropes at a new job when my brother called to tell me she was in the hospital and it didn't look good. I called my aunt for some reassurance and the choke of her sobs were the indicator that my unimaginable fear was my new reality.

Something happens in your little chapter book when a pivotal person leaves your world as you know it. The scenes that piece together your days aren't as bright, the hope and excitement you have about life just isn't as exhilarating as it once was. And you're terrified that the dullness is here to stay... and in a way, it is. You seek light and happiness where you can, but I've learned that part of being an adult is experiencing the gnawing pain of loss. There's the obvious sadness of knowing my mom and grandmother will be absent from my wedding, and that they won't be spoil my kids on our holidays together. But it goes further than that.

When I hear the Eagles' "Desperado," it's a summer afternoon and I see my mom sitting cross-legged on the floor, in front of a blaring stereo and momentarily reliving her adolescent years, oblivious to her actual teenage daughter sitting behind her. She was endlessly proud of her long nails--a byproduct of her steroid regimen... so I think of her often when I'm touching up a manicure. I can't count the number of times I have wanted to call my Mimi--to tell her about a new job, or to ask her advice on a recipe. I never thought to ask for her chicken 'n dumplings recipe. I never imagined a world without her in it. The deepest of the pain is born from the most seemingly frivolous of moments.

Sometimes the pain is so real, the tears are there before I really realize why.

She wasn't just my grandmother--she raised me when my mom couldn't. She was always, always cheerful--always so happy to hear from me, from anyone she loved. She was my always my biggest fan. She was the glue that held our family together. Since she passed away, the shock has dissolved, but the grayness of her being gone is overpowering sometimes. Believe me when I say I miss her every single day. And part of me lives in this childlike bubble where I imagine she's still back home in Texas. That she's waiting on me to come play some gin rummy over sweet tea when I make it back home in August. That she's here, but not with me in Nashville.

Tonight, I was experimenting with a new recipe for chocolate cupcakes when my mind wandered to all of the incredible things Mimi would bake from scratch. I was measuring and pouring, mindlessly listening to some spotify jams when Great Peacock slid into queue on my playlist. As the tears stung my eyes, I flipped off the mixer just to stand silently and hear the lyrics I knew were coming (it's a hauntingly beautiful song by a local band, I highly recommend it). And all at once, I just missed her so, so much.




Sometimes, a girl just wants a conversation with her grandmother. I just need to hear her infectious laugh and have that utter confidence that this world is a beautiful place because this phenomenal, loving and spirited woman adores me and genuinely wants to hear every detail of my mundane workday.

Time waits for no man, and the years come and go. But the depth of sadness I have, missing the hugs from her 5'2" frame, and the sparkle in her gleaming brown eyes never changes.

Losing the people you love is undoubtedly the hardest part of this beautiful life.