No One Told Me I’d Grieve My Mom More Than Once

No one ever told me about regrief.

Probably because it’s not an official word—it’s one I made up. Regrief is what I call the experience of grieving someone over and over again, in different ways, at different stages of your life.

I lost my mom when I was 15, so of course I grieved her as a teenager who desperately missed her mom. I grieved in the way a daughter does when all she wants is her mom to help her get ready for homecoming, to guide her through heartbreak, or to simply sit with her in the kitchen late at night. That was my first grief.

But grief doesn’t just stop after the funeral or after the first few years of “getting through it.” It shapeshifts. It circles back. It shows up in new ways you couldn’t have predicted.

When I had my son, grief came back like a tidal wave. Suddenly, I wasn’t just grieving my mom as my mom—I was grieving her as the grandma he’d never know. I grieved for myself, yes, but also for him. For the bedtime stories she’d never read, the hugs she’d never give, the special bond they’d never get to have. I even grieved for her, because she didn’t get the joy of knowing him.

When my daughter was born, grief cracked open another layer. This time, I felt the sting of raising a future mom (if that’s what she chooses) without having my own mom to show me how. I found myself grieving not just what I lost, but what my children lost—and even what future generations will miss.

And then there’s the grief of the relationship my mom and I would have today. I know it’s impossible to say exactly what it would look like, given how much my life has changed since she died. But I like to think we’d be extremely close. I imagine late-night phone calls, her cheering me on as I navigate motherhood, and us sharing a bond that grew deeper with age. Losing her meant losing not only the relationship we had, but also the one we never got the chance to build.

Regrief doesn’t stop there. It sneaks into milestones—graduations, holidays, first days of school, the tiny moments that should’ve had her in them. I think of the memories I hope to make with my kids as they grow, and I feel the ache of knowing my mom will never share those memories with us.