The First Year

What I've learned about loss in 365 days.

Unbelievably, last week marked one year since my mom died. There have been points where time slowed to a crawl, yet this first anniversary still feels like it arrived suddenly. These tender months have taken me on a deep personal quest: Devouring endless books on spirituality, attending workshops and retreats, consulting various thinkers and seekers. While I know I will be adjusting to grief for a lifetime, I do feel the end of this first year brings a type of closure I didn’t expect.

Shortly before she passed my mom told me, “Honey, I just hate that you have to go through it, especially that first year.” I distinctly remember the sadness in her voice—it was coming from someone who had experienced “it” herself. Perhaps having those words in the back of my mind has led me to believe that the clouds part a bit once you make it through the anniversary. I don’t really know. But I do know I have dived deep into all that grief has offered me so far, and I now have more wisdom and perspective than I could have anticipated last December. So in no particular order, here are some of the things I’ve learned.

Nothing to fear.

Most profoundly, my fear of death has evaporated. I chalk this up to several reasons, both scientific and mystical. Helping to shepherd someone through death makes it plain how natural it is to die. The parallels to birth are awe inducing. Having been an active participant in both birth and death in the span of three years illuminated for me that our bodies are designed to enter and exit this world. It’s the most natural thing one can imagine.

When I was in labor, one of the mantras I repeated was “Giving birth is the portal between the physical and spiritual world.” It was a simple phrase that reminded me not only of my body’s capabilities, but also the mystical side of being brought forth into the world—birth really is a portal. I now know death is too. In the final 24 hours of my mother’s physical life, I felt very aware of when her spirit had already been released. It still felt present and in the room with us, which I have written about before. I began feeling her presence over my left shoulder while at her bedside, and it remains there to this day.

Furthermore, the connection I feel so strongly with my mother has deepened the faith in God that I already held, which includes a cosmic and peaceful afterlife. Dying is simply stepping into the next realm, and while there are many unknowns, there is nothing to fear. I’ve always believed that the concept of the afterlife is too vast for the human brain to comprehend, and that it will all make sense when we enter an expanded plane of consciousness in death. I continue to steadfastly hold this belief.

Our bonds continue.

My mom’s presence is a constant hum in the background of my life. She is with me all the time, and I speak to her frequently. Grief counselors use the phrase continuing bonds to describe this purposeful relationship with someone who has passed.

In order to embrace continuing bonds, you must accept the relationship is going to be different than before. This inevitably brings sadness—I deeply miss gabbing with my mom on the phone. But once you can accept that different can still be beautiful, it is possible to hold the relationship up to the light and see it through a new angle.

One of my favorite parts of my continued bond with my mom is that it is always filled with love and appreciation. Our relationship is no longer leadened with human struggle. This is a true gift in having a spirit for a family member. There is no figuring out logistics, no running late or feeling cranky. We simply exist together in an infinite space of pure love. Though it’s not the same as before, I’ve grown to appreciate many things about this sacred relationship she and I now share. I’ve realized that the version I connect with is my mom at her most vibrant—youthful, unburdened, clever, hilarious. It’s a blessing to have her crystalized exactly like that in my mind’s eye.

When speaking aloud to my mom, I often tell her that as long as she feels this close, I will be fine. And I mean it. When I slow down and listen inside the chambers of my heart, where her love is so palpable, I am buoyed by resilience. It reminds me of the obligation I have to take care of myself, physically and spiritually, because I know how desperately she wants me to thrive. I continue to feel cheered on by her in every way.

Honor them by living.

Comedian Marc Maron has been open about his grief journey since the sudden loss of his partner Lynn in 2020. In a recent interview he spoke about a piece of advice that stuck with him, and it’s since stuck with me too. He said that he honors Lynn by living the way she did—as in, he literally performs acts he expects she would have done. It’s his way of continuing her legacy, honoring her true spirit and keeping her alive in the world.

I think of this often. When I remember the essence of my mom, I remember her generosity, her thoughtfulness and her sense of humor. When an opportunity arises to exhibit one of the behaviors I loved so much about her, I now see it as a chance for her to be alive once more. It makes me feel both proud and connected to her, like her spirit is being channeled into the living world. And it’s not just acts of kindness that offer this connection—I’ve had cheeky moments that would have tickled her to no end.

Around Easter, my mom’s favorite holiday, I decided to inform the British Royal Family that my mother had died. The idea came to me on a whim, and I thought she would have gotten a kick out of it. She particularly adored Princess Catherine, to whom I sent a copy of her obituary along with a heartfelt note. I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it; I did it just because it felt like the type of quirky thing my mom would have done. A few weeks later I received a response from the office of Her Royal Highness—quite a lovely letter, in fact! It delighted me, and made it feel like my mom’s values and interests were still embodied on earth in a way she would have appreciated.

In closing.

I am grateful to have had a mother who was frank and open about death. This was in part due to her profession as an oncology nurse, but it was largely guided by her own beliefs that death was simply not scary. In her final weeks she told me she was curious to discover what it was all about. It’s a sentiment I also heard Jane Goodall share before her own passing, when she referred to death as her “next big adventure.”

When I am stuck in a sadness loop, I remember that the dead are doing just fine. They are at peace. It’s those of us here on earth who are suffering, and it’s our responsibility to make the most of our time here. My mom does not feel sad about her death, because she is currently full of love and still present in every moment. Rather, the mourning I experience is for myself and the loss of the life I’d known until this point. It’s very hard to see a beautiful part of life come to an end, and losing a parent feels like a marked closing of a chapter.

In my mom’s final 24 hours, at one point she awoke and smiled at me, pretending to dance in her bed and singing a couple words of a song she loved. “We sure had fun, didn’t we?” she asked me. Indeed we did. Life is clearly so precious. Not precious as in delicate, but as in unbelievably divine. Our lived experiences are revolutionary and astonishingly fleeting. I’ve come to understand that our lives on earth are minuscule compared to the time we spend elsewhere, both before our births and after our deaths.

What an incredible gift to be alive in the first place. To feel so deeply, to learn and grow, to form relationships with ourselves and others. I’m continually bowled over by the fact we all get to experience the complexity of life.

This first anniversary found me mostly full of peace and rooted in gratitude. I am thankful to have had a mother who grounded me in so much love, and instilled in me a faith that sustains me. I have more questions about life and death than ever before, but I am certain that we are all here for a reason—and we have such a short time to do something meaningful.

In closing, I share a benediction from Henri Frederic Amiel (b. 1821), though it was introduced to me by clergy at Grace Cathedral over the years, namely The Rev. Ellen Clark-King and The Rev. Mary Carter Greene:

Life is short,
And we do not have much time
to gladden the hearts of those who
make the journey with us.
So… be swift to love,
and make haste to be kind.
And the blessing of God,
who made us,
who loves us,
and who travels with us
be with you now and forever.
AMEN

This is my last newsletter of 2025, and I look forward to being back in your inbox in January.

in love & faith,
anné jude