She's not here anymore

But I have so much to tell her.

How do I cope with doing something incredibly fun or achieving a lifelong goal, but not being able to tell every detail to someone who helped me get to where I am today?

This is something I’ve been struggling with a lot over the past 10 months. My mom is dead, and that clouds every single thing that happens in my life. ALS is cruel.

When I got invited to WWDC in June, I was on cloud nine. But minutes after receiving that invite, a wave of depression hit. I wanted to text or call my mom and tell her about it. But she’s not here anymore.

After WWDC, that feeling was even worse. I had an incredible week in Cupertino, going to an Apple keynote, meeting online friends, and trying Vision Pro. On the flight home, I just wanted to tell my mom every single detail. I wanted to send her all of the pictures I took. The story I wrote.

Instead, I turned my head towards the window, put my hood up, and cried. Because she’s not here anymore.

A similar feeling occurred after the Apple event in September. I just wanted to tell her everything. But she’s not here anymore.

Every time there was an Apple event, my mom would ask if I was invited. I never was. She’d suggest, “Just email Tim Cook and ask him.” She knew it was a lifelong goal to go to an event. And when I finally achieved that goal, I couldn’t tell her about it. I couldn’t thank her for everything she did to help me achieve that goal. She’s not here anymore.

I went to a concert on Monday, The 1975. It was a fantastic show. I wanted to send her some of the pictures and videos I took. But she’s not here anymore.

I’m going to Austin City Limits this weekend. I know it will be a fun and memorable weekend. On Monday, I know I’ll be depressed about not being able to tell her everything.

She loved Austin and lived there for years when she went to graduate school at Texas State. I've driven past the house where she lived in Pflugerville multiple times. I’ve gone to her favorite restaurants. In this picture, she’s outside of her first apartment with her puppy Indy.

This feeling has followed pretty much every “fun” thing I’ve done since my mom passed away in December. The “fun” moment is followed by a wave of depression that I still haven’t learned to cope with.

It also follows the relatively mundane day-to-day things. I want to send her pictures of something cute the dogs did. I want to tell her about a new song I found. She loved music. I want to tell her that Emily is almost done with school and we’re about to move. I want her advice on where we should move and what we should do.

I can’t even imagine how bad this feeling will be when Emily and I have our first kid. Maybe that’s why I’m so scared about doing it.

I want to hear about all of the things she was doing. What happened at work that day? What’s she watching on TV? When is she going to get that broken step fixed? But she’s not here anymore.

Someday, I hope to learn how to manage these feelings. That day is not today, and I’m guessing it won’t be tomorrow either.