I wrote something on Facebook today about my mother’s death, and I thought I would share it here in case it resonates with you.

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As I invite people to my little book party (my first event in at least ten years), I’m amazed there was a time I hosted monthly parties for hundreds or thousands of people, and that I did so with almost no anxiety.

I call that person “old me”. “Old me” was searching for the conditions to become “new me”, but it wasn’t until my mom died that I was really forced to ground. And here I am, ten years on, planning a party that she would love, to celebrate the book I wrote in her honour. But the strangest thing might be—and this is the premise of the book in some ways—that her death was a gift.

I was largely estranged from my mother during my teens and twenties because of her alcoholism, but she stopped drinking two years before she died, and we were in touch almost daily. The news that she was dying came suddenly (we had a week or so to say goodbye), and this window of time was magical, full of laughter and tears, and deeply restorative. I was able to care for her as she had cared for me when she was a wonderful young mother, and our deep connective harmony synchronized again.

Her death allowed me the clarity and perspective to slow down and finally build a home for myself, and also a meaningful life. If she had died even a year later, I would not have Jeremy, Rooksby, and Hugo.

A large part of parenthood, for me, is recreating the best memories of my childhood (of which there are so many), and remaking (and healing) the rest. I wish my mom were here so I could thank her for all my lives, but I suppose Facebook’ll do today. xoxo

🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕