When the Healing Looks Different: A Legacy of Love

Grief reshapes us.
Not in the way we expect,
but in a way that makes us who we are meant to be.

I was in my final year of high school when the call came.
My mum had a seizure.

Simon shouted for her,
we rushed to the front room
to find her acting completely normal.

But the panic on Simon’s face said everything.

The ambulance came.
And that was the beginning of a journey
we didn’t yet understand.

My older brother Matt stepped away from university to care for her.
He drove her to chemo
and brought her home again.

I don’t remember all the details.
I just remember that she went into remission.

She claimed healing.
And I believed her.
We all did.

For a while, it felt like we had won.
Life moved forward.
Years passed.

Then, quietly, the cancer returned.

It came back stronger this time,
pressing against parts of her brain
that affected her movement, her memory, her speech.

I was with her at the hospital when the scan results came in.
I was her translator.
I was her daughter.

I was the one who heard the news that changed everything again.

She refused surgery.
We respected her decision,
even as the consequences became clear.

Her mobility declined.
She eventually became bedridden.

And nothing truly prepares you for the shift
from being cared for
to becoming the caregiver,
especially when you’re watching someone you love
choose privacy over intervention,
and strength over control.

We believed God would heal her again.
We prayed.
We fasted.
We hoped.

But this time, the healing didn’t look like recovery.
It looked like surrender.

I watched her take her last breath.
That moment has never left me.

I wrestled with God,
“I did everything right.
And still, You took her?”

It didn’t make sense.

But He brought to mind the story of David:
how he fasted for his child,
and still the child died.
And yet, David got up.
He worshipped.
He moved forward.

And so did I.
Not all at once.
But I worshipped, even through the ache.

Because even in grief, God is still good.
Even in sorrow, He is still bigger.

Healing came slowly through time,
through wise counsel,
through quiet acceptance
of a will higher than mine.

I began to see the silver linings.
I began to trust again.

Motherhood changed everything.

Holding Eden, caring for her,
I began to feel my mum in new ways:
her gentleness in my hands,
her faith in my heart,
her presence in the stillness.

It was then I understood:
she hadn’t left me.
She had simply gone ahead.

Grief doesn’t always look like healing.
Sometimes, healing is letting go.

Sometimes, it’s trusting
that even when the outcome is different
than what we prayed for,
God is still faithful.

In the hills and valleys of motherhood,
He walks with me.

Just as He walked with my mum.
Just as He will walk with Eden.

To every mother carrying grief
while learning to give love again,

you are not alone.

There is strength in your surrender,
beauty in your breaking,
and purpose in your pain.

My journey through loss didn’t end in despair.
It unfolded into deeper love,
quiet healing,
and unshakable faith.

Our stories may hold sorrow,
but they are also marked by hope.

“Those who sow in tears
will reap with songs of joy.”
— Psalm 126:5