Today —26th Oct—would have been my mother’s birthday. She would have turned 53, just 53, but she didn’t. She didn’t even get to turn 52. Thinking about this now, I realize how cruel life was to her at such a young age. Her brain tumor was first diagnosed in 2020, but the truth is she had been experiencing headaches that just got worse over time. This means that since she was just 45, she was asymptomatic, and her condition only progressively deteriorated since.
What breaks my heart is that when I log on to Instagram, I see 45-year-old women who are baddies, living their best lives, exercising, solo dates, traveling, dressing in cute outfits, “redefining life in your forties,” but not my mom; what she got was the beginning of the cruel battle of an egregious illness which slowly sucked the life out of her. Between 2020 and 2025, when she passed away, all she was to almost everyone was her illness. It became her personality, even when she tried her best to fight it by still being our mom.
Her travelling became hospital visits; photoshoots were multiple MRIs and CTs. While other women her age enjoyed their forties, hers were her most painful years. And just now, I have just seen a reel of a very beautiful and healthy woman doing an outfit check with the caption, “This is 58.” Why couldn’t that have been my mother?
Every time I remember my mom, I just cannot fathom or explain the amount of grief that consumes me. So much so that sometimes I’m not even mourning her, but I am crying because I pity myself from a surge of emotions that I just don’t know what to do with. I hate that now this is it. I have to live like this. And so for me, today is a reminder that my mom actually lived; she was born today.
I used to see people post “happy heavenly birthday,” and I never understood. I loved my life more when I did not understand. When I was even confused and maybe even slightly judgmental. Why post that? I mean, they are already dead; the birthday is obsolete—ignorance is indeed bliss. Now I look at those posts with a heavy heart. Knowing that these people cannot imagine a life where this person does not exist. To them, they are still there.
Because how can someone who’s the sole reason for your existence, the one who shaped your entire being, suddenly cease to exist? How does that even work?
Nyambura
I hate that I felt that people grieved for too long. Posted too much—how stupid was I to think that. But part of me misses being that naïve, close-minded. Now, I hate that I understand. And I am very jealous—and happy for the people who do not understand. I hope it stays that way. Because for me now, I might understand and forgive the world for being this cruel to me that I have to live like this; I mean, it is the cycle of life, right?
But I will never forgive the world for being so callous to my mother.
