CHAPTER 1

The End is Near

I've known my life expectancy for over 20 years. Perhaps I haven't always known the exact months and years, but since I was a teenager, I knew there was little chance I'd live past 44. Is that logical? Not really, but there isn't much logic involved with grief, especially grief that began at age 17. Grief doesn't always make sense, but it's a beautiful expression of love, regardless of what you want. When we grieve who our loved one was and what we miss about them, we continue a relationship with them. What does make sense to me is the inevitable grief math that so many people admit to doing after a parent dies young. For 27 years, and certainly throughout 2025, I believed that my final grief math answer would be 44 years, 9 months, and 6 days, but there was a lot of math that led to that result.

But here I am. Facing the last year of my life, because I can't see past 44. I have no genetic model of a woman past that age. I hated every math class from elementary school through that one required math credit in college, but the headaches from geometry and algebra don't compare to the pain of figuring out the day you'll die simply because that's how long your mom lived.

The year I turn the age my mom died has been on my mind for a couple of years. It's been on the horizon, and now it's here. It really feels like the end for me, and it's comforting and validating to know that others have felt this way, too. Despite that comfort and validation, I still can't convince myself this isn't the year I'll die. It feels like 9 months and 6 days of a bucket list, and perhaps that's how I'll treat it.

We're never the same after profound losses. Even within a family, each individual griever responds differently to the same loss. One family member may openly reflect on their loved one periodically while thinking about them all the time. Another may rarely utter their name. Another person may grieve by seeking opportunities for storytelling, celebrating the life of the deceased, and speaking openly about how that loss has shaped them. I am the latter, and that's been my method of coping since her death. I'm always looking for a moment to tell a story or share an anecdote about my mom that keeps her present with me while letting people around me know how lucky I was to be her daughter for 17 years. My hope is that my way of grieving will help this difficult year feel less frightening and more joyful, more reflective.

I am the only daughter in my family, and losing a mother young leaves lifelong marks on a daughter. Being a motherless daughter has become part of my identity, and the further I am from the loss, the more the motherless part is felt. The moment fellow motherless daughters meet each other, we feel a connection. It's one of the few times that someone saying "I know how you feel" is remotely comforting. Most of the time, that's one of those statements that makes you want to scream, "No, you don't!" while giving them a tight smile instead.

Traumatic events at a young age don't simply require you to grow up faster. Experiencing the heavy parts of life earlier creates a barrier between you and other people your age. It always felt like other kids were staring at me as if there was a unicorn horn protruding from my forehead, and it can still feel that way sometimes. There was fascination but also apprehension. My freshman year of college began eight months after my mom's death, and I could talk about death and trauma with ease by then — and honestly, talking casually about her death helped me cope. I remember making a sarcastic comment about my mom at lunch during freshman orientation that appalled a classmate. It was a simple comment about my mom sometimes being mean. Name a teenage girl who wouldn't say the same thing. I'll wait. Girls with mothers say those comments freely, but a girl without a mother? Gasp! How dare I! I never felt safe around that classmate the entire four years we were in rural Virginia, because of that moment in the cafeteria before our college careers officially started. Bereaved children and adolescents need to feel safe to grieve, laugh, and be heard.

I have always paid attention to the same awkward silences and odd responses people have when they learn my mom died. This year, I'm unsettling people even more when I drop the "I'm turning the age my mom was when she died" line. There are a handful of responses to that. 1. Silence, followed by a subject change. This is a telling sign that you're uncomfortable, and that you're putting your comfort over being supportive. It tells us who can show up and who can't. 2. If they, or someone close to them, was in a similar situation, they might say, "I remember how hard it was for my dad when he reached the day his dad died." That one shows sympathy. 3. Some will have a follow-up question about how this big birthday makes me feel. This response shows both empathy and curiosity. It's my favorite. It makes me feel seen and heard, and that is incredibly powerful. It's also rare.

When someone asks about this looming milestone, they give me the opportunity to explain grief math. The curious ones are fascinated and often go on to reach out to friends who lost a parent when they were young. I feel a bit safer explaining what a frightening year of uncertainty this is. It can help them understand how common it is to feel lost in this situation. We wonder how to navigate the years our parent never lived to see — years we must face without their example. That feels like the end.

People who are grieving, regardless of how long ago the death was, become used to awkward silences, tilted heads and furrowed brows, and well-meaning statements that land as hurtful. Occasionally, someone will ask me about my mom's life or death. Both are part of her story as well as mine. Like anyone who has lost someone close to them, it is incredibly meaningful when someone says her name and asks about her. To understand who she was, how she died, and how her death has shaped me is to make meaning of the loss.

She was Deb to some, Debbie to others, and Debra to a few. She was "Bee" to my dad. She was "Mom" to Nate and me. Her name was Debra Shannon, and I'm her daughter.