Sometimes, I look back and think of my family. At first, I’m certain that there are six of us. A faint montage of memories crawls its way into my mind: Typically one of my dad coming home from work, my older sisters chatting about some television show on our couch, and my mother who had just brought home merienda for all of us to share. However, I come back to reality and realize that those interlaced images are nothing more than memories of what once was. I often feel a subtle pinch in my heart whenever I remember that our being six was almost a lifetime ago, and there are only five of us now: My dad, my three older sisters, and me.
For many of us who have suffered the loss of a loved one, our lives forever become different after their passing. Our daily routines are no longer the same. Growing up, I’ve become accustomed to my mom waking me up for school at exactly 5:30 in the morning every day, but for the past few years, I would always have to set my own alarm instead and keep reminding myself that my mother’s voice will no longer be there to wake me up.
It appears on the most random days. Maybe I’m in the middle of walking to class, I’m eating lunch with friends, or I’m just doing a particularly difficult assignment for school. My mind starts to look for her comfort—like a mere hug or words of encouragement to get me through those extra stressful days—but I always have to snap myself out of that haze and come to the painful reality that she’s no longer with us anymore. Sometimes, those sudden flashes of melancholy, of bittersweet nostalgia, of longing for her presence—comes and pangs through the deep recesses of my heart. In other moments, it just knocks and gently nudges me, a reminder that its presence is there.
Psychologists emphasize the significance of the five stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Whenever I’m reminded of my mother, I often ponder which stage I’m currently under, but my reflection always leaves me perplexed. I sometimes find myself feeling that I’ve already accepted her passing. However, in moments of isolation, it also feels like I’m going through every stage all at once. In times of frustration and anxiety, I just wallow in a profound sadness I can never explain nor understand myself.
The more years since her passing, I’ve come to the realization that grief was never a bunch of stages that I could just magically go through and free myself of. It’s constantly there and will always be there regardless of how much I try to remove it from my life. Some would say undergoing those five stages is essential in moving on, but I’d like to believe in moving forward more than moving on. When you move forward, memories are never just forgotten and left in the past—they’re held to your heart close enough that it would propel you to greater resilience and strength when faced with adversity.
In some ways, I’ve adapted to the changes grief has brought in my existence, but most times, the grief still remains. And maybe that’s the point. Grief—as we begin to experience it—perpetually stays with us for as long as we’re alive. Whether three months or three years since a loved one has passed, it’s okay to miss them every now and then. In fact, it’s human.
It’s been over three years since her death, but my grief still frequently arrives. Maybe my mom just wants to subtly nudge me every now and then like she used to every morning. Maybe she’s telling me she’s still here, but it has now manifested in a different way. I’d never know for certain.
Andrea Tibayan is a 2 AB Communication major and a Features staffer of The GUIDON.
