Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about death.
Not in a dark way, and not because I believe it is waiting just around the corner. Perhaps it is simply part of getting older. The years move faster now than they once did, and every so often I find myself thinking about what happens when my journey eventually comes to an end.
What surprises me is that when I think about death, I rarely think about myself.
I think about the people I love.
I think about my daughters.
I think about their partners, the people who have stood beside them and built lives with them. They are part of my family too. Their lives would be touched by my absence just as surely as my daughters’ lives would.
I think about my granddaughter.
I think about the milestones I hope to witness, the stories I hope to tell her, the memories I hope she carries of me long after I am gone. And if there comes a day when I am no longer here, I hope she knows how deeply she was loved.
As a mother, I have spent my life trying to care for the people entrusted to me.
When my daughters were young, caring meant scraped knees, bedtime stories, school lunches, and reassuring hugs. It meant being present for every triumph and heartbreak. It meant helping them navigate a world that often felt much bigger than they were.
Now, caring looks different.
These days, caring means preparation.
It means making sure important documents can be found. It means updating information, writing things down, and putting my affairs in order. It means trying to remove as many burdens as possible from the shoulders of those I love.
Not because I expect to leave anytime soon.
Quite the opposite.
I still have places I want to visit, stories I want to write, coffee to drink, sunsets to watch, and people I want to spend time with. There is still so much life left to live, and I intend to enjoy every bit of it.
But I have come to understand that preparing for the inevitable is not the same thing as fearing it.
It is an act of love.
If the day comes when my daughters must face a world without me, I do not want them struggling to find answers while navigating grief. I do not want their partners carrying unnecessary stress because I left things unfinished. I do not want my granddaughter wondering whether she mattered to me.
I want them to know that even in planning for a day I hope is far away, I was thinking of them.
I was still being their mother.
Still trying to protect them.
Still trying to make life a little easier.
Perhaps that is what love becomes as we age. It is no longer measured by bedtime stories or holding little hands. It is measured by the care we take today for the people who will carry our memory tomorrow.
And perhaps one of the last acts of motherhood is making sure that, even in our absence, the people we love feel cared for.
Because love, in its truest form, doesn’t end when a life does.
It simply finds new ways to remain.
