When I was in my early twenties, I had a ritual that grounded me every morning—I’d call my mom. There were no cell phones back then, so I’d pick up the office phone before diving into my day. Life felt like a whirlwind: rushing out the door, battling traffic, and dreading a job I didn’t even like. But that phone call was my anchor. No matter how chaotic my morning was, hearing her voice reminded me I was loved, that she was there, and that everything would be okay.
Years later, as a stay-at-home mom with little ones underfoot, those calls became even more precious. My mornings started early with my oldest son waking before dawn, and the house was always filled with noise—spilled sippy cups, cartoons on TV, endless messes. But amidst the chaos, my mom’s voice brought me calm. She reminded me that what I was doing mattered, even when it felt like I was drowning in diapers and laundry. Her reassurance gave me strength, her words made me feel seen, and her love reminded me I wasn’t alone.
As my kids grew older, the timing of our calls shifted. No longer squeezed between toddler tantrums or nap times, our chats came after school drop-offs or during errands. Still, those moments with her remained the highlight of my day—the pause that reminded me I was supported, no matter how busy life became.
When I returned to work, our calls moved to my commute. Cell phones became my saving grace, letting us talk wherever I was. She knew to wait patiently if the signal dropped; I’d always call her back. Even as my house grew quieter with my kids growing up and moving out, our conversations stayed the same: warm, loving, and filled with the small details that made life meaningful. Those calls were my ritual, my grounding force.
Then, last October, my mom passed away. And just like that, everything changed. My mornings now feel aimless. I pick up my phone out of habit, but I don’t know who to call. She was my constant, the one who celebrated my victories, comforted my losses, and listened to every little detail of my life. She had lived every stage of motherhood alongside me, sharing wisdom about babies, teenagers, and the joy of seeing them grow into adults. She was my safe place.
I’ll never forget one of our last conversations. My mom, already so tired, said to me, “I keep thinking I need to call my mom and tell her I’m dying.” Her own mother had been gone for years, but I understood exactly what she meant. Even then, she longed for the comfort only a mother can give. And now, I feel that same ache. There’s no one who knew me like she did, no one who cared so deeply about the tiny moments of my day. I saved those little pieces of my life just for her, and now, I don’t know where to put them.
But yesterday, something happened. My son called me on his way to work. Just like I used to call my mom. And in that moment, it clicked—it’s my turn now. My turn to be the one who listens, who cares, who helps start someone’s day with love. I’ll always answer his calls, just as my mom answered mine. I’ll treasure every conversation, every detail he shares, and I’ll be his anchor, just as she was for me.
And when the phone rings, I’ll feel her presence. I’ll hear her voice in the love I pass on. She’s still here, guiding me, reminding me to cherish these moments and carry forward the gift she gave me. Because that’s what a mother’s love does—it echoes through generations, unbroken, forever.
