I’ve always found that examples help me learn, and if you’re struggling with being overwhelmed by emotions—especially sadness—to the point where it’s hard to function, I hope this real-time reflection on my own experience can offer some helpful ideas.
Yesterday, I received a phone call from the nursing home where my 80-year-old mother resides. She has been steadily losing weight and now weighs less than 90 pounds. Lately, she’s refused to be weighed, making it difficult to track whether the decline is continuing. More concerning, though, is that she has also begun refusing meals.
What shocked me most, however, was the report from the staff. When they tried to encourage her to eat or reposition her to prevent pressure sores, she responded with something like, “I know. I’m ready to go.”
She hasn’t spoken to me like that in a long time. Given her ongoing weight loss, I’ve been visiting more frequently, bringing her food and feeding her myself, hoping to help her regain some weight. But hearing that she is now expressing a readiness to pass felt rather shocking.
I told the staff member that I had anticipated this. I wasn’t devastated or overwhelmed with grief. My parents provided for my basic needs growing up, but beginning in my early teens, my mother and I had almost continuous conflicts. I tried hard to gain her approval, but nothing ever seemed to be quite good enough. The version of me she wanted wasn’t one I was built to be.
Because of that, I never really depended on my parents for deep emotional support. I learned to take care of that on my own—with God or with others. Independence was a lesson they taught me well, and I embraced it fully. So, when I thought about losing my mother, I never imagined I would feel a deep sense of loss. Sadness, of course—but not something that would hit too hard.
Yet, when the kind staff brought up the possibility palliative care, it hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t expect it so soon. The realization felt like a gut punch. As I have sorted through my emotions, I began to recognize something I had never fully appreciated before:
She has always been there.
My mother is a creature of habit. She’s only lived in two homes for as long as I’ve known her. Before that, there were a couple of places from my early childhood that I don’t remember, but for decades, she remained in the same spaces. And now, I feel as though I am losing something—a connection to my past, an anchor to the world I came from.
Strangely, it reminds me a bit of when my brother passed away over two decades ago before he even turned 30. He was my only sibling, and not long after, my parents divorced. Even though both of them were still alive, I remember feeling like an orphan. My family structure had blown apart, and for a long time, I felt very alone. Over time, that changed—I rebuilt my relationships with both my parents, now separately, went through my own marriage, divorce, and remarriage, and eventually found myself feeling blessed by the family I now have.
But as my mother’s passing seemed to suddenly rush closer, I felt an odd sense of disconnection I didn’t expect.
Despite our disagreements, I realize now that we have made peace in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I was younger. I now see past much of her criticism to some of her deeper intentions. And now no longer desperately needing her approval I even find humor in them. Her rigid nature and stubbornness haven’t faded, and with the onset of dementia, reasoning with her has become even more futile.
Still, in reflecting on our relationship, certain moments stand out.
Years ago, when she was still driving, she would make the trip into Fresno to have lunch with me. By then, we had largely reconciled, though it had taken firm boundaries on my part—like telling her that if she continued criticizing me for drinking Coke, I’d simply hang up. She adjusted, for the most part. And by then, when she did slip back into trying to dictate my life, I would just look at her, and we’d both laugh.
Those lunches were good times—really good times. And now, the woman who once met me for those meals is fading, leaving behind a shell of who she used to be.
For so many years, I wrestled with pain, frustration, and resentment over never quite measuring up in her eyes. But somewhere along the way, I changed. I grew. And now, it hardly matters at all. I like who I am and who I am becoming. I can look in the mirror and respect the man I see.
And I can recognize something I hadn’t before:
My mother—this woman who brought me into life and spent so many years trying to mold me into someone I wasn’t—was also the one who, in her own way, helped me become the man God always intended me to be.
It was her observation, not mine, that led to the discovery of my vision problems when I was a child—issues that had prevented me from learning basic things like numbers and the alphabet. It was her persistence that took me to an eye doctor week after week for months, where I learned exercises that enabled me to finally focus and be able to actually see. Without that, I am convinced my life would have been radically different. In fact I think it's likely I could have ended up in prison or maybe even dead. Instead I've been blessed with a moderately successful professional career based on attaining a master's degree. A far better life than it likely would have been.
Socially, I struggled. I was an outcast, angry and frustrated. But at least I could succeed academically. And I believe that success gave me the ability to make more positive choices than negative ones. If I had failed in that too, I don't think there would have been much left but anger at the world and rebellion.
Oddly enough, one of the biggest sources of conflict between us became the most foundational influence in my life—God.
She has a very different view of God than I do. As an adult, I can appreciate that with intellectual curiosity, but when I was younger, it felt like just another impossible standard I couldn’t meet. Yet, it was her persistence in pointing me toward God, the Bible, and church that ultimately led me to develop the faith that has become the foundation of my identity.
She still thinks I’m doing it wrong. But I don’t mind anymore. I know how God sees me, and that is enough.
But who set me on this path in the first place?
My mother.
In some strange, unexpected way, all the arguments, frustrations, and pain led me to become someone I genuinely like. And now, I see what I never could before—God always knew what He was doing. Even when I prayed desperately for Him to help me get along with her and it felt like a complete failure, He was at work.
At one point, I even rejected everything related to God, but even that journey led me to a deeper, more personal understanding of Him—separate from, yet started by, the mother who first introduced me to Him.
If this story seems crazy, it kind of is. But isn’t that the kind of crazy, amazing, and unexpected work that God does?
Who else but an all-knowing, infinitely wise, and wildly unconventional God would take a pampered son and send him as a slave into a foreign kingdom, only to raise him from the prison to the palace, not just to save his own family, an entire nation, but the human linage of Christ himself? (Genesis 37 - 47)
And is that really any more shocking than a Creator leaving His rightful place of honor to be born in a cattle stall, live among a broken world, and sacrifice Himself for the very people who murdered Him?
Looking at my life now, it’s clear—God has worked all things together for good! (Romans 8:28)
The woman who gave me life, and yet unknowing tried to crush the person I actually was, ultimately helped me become who God is designing me to be.
I am in awe. I am humbled. And I am so very grateful.
So as I face the inevitable, my gratitude outweighs my sadness. I am losing an external anchor to the world I was born into, but my internal foundation has never been stronger.
And with that, I find peace—knowing that God truly does work all things together for good! 🙂
Even now, as I prepare to visit my mother, knowing my time with her is limited, I can concentrate and focus enough to write these words with clarity. I am sad, but I am at peace.
