The Architect of My Motherhood

The Wrongness of the Calendar

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and for the first time in thirty years, the math is broken. This day was never just about me; it was about us. Greg was the primary witness to my transformation. He was the one who held my hand through the C-sections, the one who navigated the toddler meltdowns, and the one who looked at our children and saw exactly what I saw. Without the person who helped build the mother I am, the day feels like a house with the foundation ripped out.

​The Commencement Robbery

I worked ISU Commencement today, and it was a beautiful, brutal assault on the senses. I watched the dads in the stands—the ones with the oversized cameras and the "that’s my kid" grins. I saw them hugging their graduates, and all I could think about was the robbery.

​I looked at those families and I didn't see today; I saw December 2027. I saw the empty space where Greg should be standing when Avery walks across that stage. It’s a theft of a future we already paid for with thirty years of hard work and love. How am I supposed to be "enough" for her that day when I’m already grieving a moment that hasn't even happened yet?

​The Phantom Whistle

In the middle of the ceremony today, through the hum of thousands of voices, I heard it. A quick, sharp, piercing whistle. It was the exact sound Greg used to make at ball games, crowded amusement parks, or graduation parties when he needed to get the kids’ attention.

​It was "The Dad Whistle."

​Whenever he did it, Avery and Wyatt would whip their heads around instantly—they knew that sound among a million others. When I heard it today, my body reacted before my brain could catch up. My chest tightened, and for a split second, I was looking for him in the crowd. I was waiting for him to be the one signaling to our kids that he saw them, that he was proud, that he was there.

​The silence that follows a sound like that is the loudest thing in the world. It’s a reminder that while the world keeps whistling, my favorite song has gone quiet. It made me realize that part of why I feel like I "suck" at this right now is because I’m still listening for his lead. I’m still waiting for the whistle to tell me which way to turn.

​The "Solo Parent" Lie

Lately, I’ve been telling myself this lie: I suck at being a mother without him. When I’m second-guessing a decision or feeling the weight of parenting adult children alone, I feel like a bird trying to fly with one wing. I'm spinning in circles, wondering why I’m so exhausted.

But the truth is, I don't suck at this. I’m just doing a two-person job with a ghost as my only partner. Greg poured his confidence into me for three decades. He didn't just leave me with memories; he left me with the "blueprints" for how we loved these kids.

​Planting for the Future

I’ve been restless today, the kind of restless that makes your skin feel too tight. I keep looking at the perennial bulbs I ordered—the peonies and yarrow—waiting for their turn in the dirt. Maybe that’s the metaphor I need right now. Motherhood without Greg feels like winter, but the seeds he helped plant in Avery and Wyatt are still there. They are going to bloom, and even if he isn’t standing in the stands in 2027, his DNA is the one walking across the stage.

​To the Keepers of the Shared Legacy

To those of you facing tomorrow with an empty chair: It’s okay to feel "wrong." It’s okay to feel like the thief got away with the best parts. Tomorrow, I’m going to try to be kind to the woman Greg loved so much. I’m going to try to see in myself what the Architect of my motherhood always saw.

#deathofspouse #widowedandstillrising #thejenjournal #griefjourney