We celebrate photographs filled with laughter, holidays, achievements, birthdays, and even life’s most intimate moments on social media rarely questioning why. Yet when the memories are of someone who has passed, they are often viewed through a different lens. They become a measure of whether we have ‘moved on’ or ‘healed’.
Over the past few weeks, I have received messages from people who care about me. They have gently reminded me that time heals, that I need to be strong, and that perhaps I should let myself move forward. I receive those words with gratitude. But I also smile.
I was raised by a woman whose courage was quiet yet unyielding, whose integrity never bent to convenience, and whose life was lived entirely on her own terms. If there is strength in me today, it is because she forged it.
Mammu was far more active on social media than I ever was. Ironically, it is after she left her physical form that I have found myself turning to this space. Not for sympathy. Not because I am unable to cope. But because memories deserve to be spoken aloud. Because love deserves witnesses. Because remembering someone is, in itself, an act of gratitude.
It also leaves me wondering: does grief have an expiry date? Does love become inappropriate once enough months have passed? Is remembrance meant to become quieter simply because time has moved forward?
For me, the answer is no. My mother was my world. She was, in every way that mattered, my first teacher, my sanctuary, and my God. I do not wish to forget her voice, her laughter, or the countless ordinary moments that became extraordinary simply because she was there.
Missing her physical presence is not the same as living in despair. I was raised to value life as the greatest gift. To understand that gain and loss are both part of the human experience. To remain anchored through both. My spiritual teachers have taught me to look beyond what is immediately visible, and life itself has taught me that grief and grace are not opposites. They often walk hand in hand.
I do not share because I am in pain. I am, most days. But I share because love continues. And love does not end with a funeral, nor does it diminish with time. It simply changes its language.
I, thus, continue to celebrate Mammu – in stories, photographs, laughter, quiet moments, and conversations. I celebrate her in every space available to me just as I celebrated her when she was here beside us.
This is not about holding on to grief. It is about holding on to love. And I hope I never learn to do otherwise.
