SHE LIVES WITHIN ME….

A reflection on love, loss, and the everlasting presence of my mother.

For My Mother, Tonya

Good morning, dear readers — or good evening to those standing on the same side of the sun as I am. Lately, my life feels like an Eric Satie piece played by Alexandre Tharaud: haunting, fragile, and achingly beautiful. This post is dedicated to my mother, Tonya — a woman so pure, so radiant, that her very existence seemed to hold light itself.

When someone you love passes, you begin to realize how much of them lived quietly in your world — in the scent that lingered on their sweater, in the warmth of their embrace, and most of all, in the sound of their laughter. My mother’s humor had a rare, cynical edge, sharp yet tender, and her laugh carried that unmistakable note of joy that could lift an entire room. Sometimes, it feels strange to remember her — almost as if she were a character written into my story, too good and too vivid to be real. But she was real. And she was extraordinary.

As time passes, I’ve come to understand how delicate life truly is. The lessons she taught me — the quiet ones, the ones hidden in her small gestures and soft words — now shine brighter than ever. I realize now how much I took for granted, how many times I assumed she’d always be there to pick up the phone or offer advice. But the most beautiful discovery of all is knowing that she loved me more than life itself. That love, I’ve learned, doesn’t disappear — it simply transforms.

My mother, Tonya, was courage and kindness woven into one radiant being. She was pure, honest, funny, and impossibly lovely. She had a gift for turning even the darkest day into something worth smiling about. Every room she entered seemed to shift — her energy so magnetic that people couldn’t help but be drawn to her warmth. She inspired everyone she met, sometimes without even trying.

Now, as I move through life without her physical presence, I see her everywhere. I see her in the way the trees sway on quiet afternoons, in the delicate unfolding of flowers, in the soft gold of the sunset. Nature feels like her reflection — every petal, every ray of light reminding me of who she was and how deeply she loved. I’m endlessly thankful to have been hers — to have been loved by a woman so full of grace.

One of my dearest friends once told me something that changed everything: “She isn’t gone — she lives within you.” I carry that truth with me. I hear her voice when I question myself: “Victoria, do the right thing.” I hear her when I doubt: “Don’t second-guess yourself.” And sometimes, I even hear her teasing me, laughing as she says, “Victoria, you already know the answer.” It’s in those moments I realize she’s still guiding me — not from the outside, but from deep within my soul.

Grief has taught me more about love than anything else ever could. It’s a teacher that arrives uninvited, yet leaves you wiser, softer, and more awake to the world. Some people say time heals all wounds, but I’ve come to see it differently. Time doesn’t erase the pain; it simply teaches you how to live with it, how to carry it gently. Grief never really leaves — it just becomes part of who you are. And maybe that’s okay.

So to anyone walking through the slow, uncertain process of loss — please be patient with yourself. Don’t rush your healing. Don’t compare your pace to anyone else’s. Grief has no timeline, no rulebook, and no right way to exist. Allow yourself to feel it, to sit in it, to learn from it. Because love, even when wrapped in sorrow, remains the most sacred thing we’ll ever experience.

For me, continuing on is not just about surviving; it’s about honoring my mother by living as she did — with courage, laughter, and love for life itself. Through her teachings, I’ve found my purpose again: to help others find light in their own darkness, to remind them that even in grief, beauty still exists. My mother taught me that love never dies — it only changes shape. And as I walk through this world, I know she walks beside me still, her laughter echoing softly in the wind.

Xoxo,

Victoria S