Full Circle: Saying Goodbye to My Mother at Starved Rock
The Call
In 2022, I lost my mother to dementia — a heartbreaking disease that quietly steals pieces of the person you love, slowly, over time. When I got the call that her condition had worsened and she had been rushed to the hospital, instinct took over as I raced to her bedside. Years of nursing experience have taught me how to respond to emergencies, but nothing will ever prepare you to become both the caregiver and the grieving child.
At the hospital, I held her the same way she had once held me as a child — with love, gentleness, and unspoken understanding. The roles had reversed, and in that moment, I wasn’t a nurse; I was her daughter. I whispered reassurance through the fear and the tears, and as I held her close, I realized life was coming full circle.
Somewhere deep inside, I also recognized something I wasn’t ready to name yet — I was now the matriarch of our family. The weight of that realization didn’t fully settle in until much later.
The Blur
It has taken me a long time to find the words to reflect and write this.
The days after my mother left this world were a blur — a whirlwind of planning, decisions, and responsibilities that barely allowed space to breathe. I moved through it all on autopilot, consumed by grief yet driven by the need to make sure everything was done the way she deserved.
In the few quiet moments we had, my brother, father, and I sat together sharing stories and old photographs — remembering the mother who raised us, her laugh, her quirks, her unwavering love. There was comfort in that — in piecing together her memory through the fragments she left behind.
When the final details were done and the last visitor had gone home, the silence finally set in. That’s when the reality began to sink in — she was gone, and life would now look different in every possible way.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”— Rumi
The Morning After
The day after her funeral, I did what I’ve always done when I don’t know what else to do: I went outside.
It was my new boyfriend — someone I had only been with for a few months, the man who would later become my forever — who gently suggested a hike at Starved Rock State Park. Somehow, he knew that the trail would be where I could find a moment of peace.
The canyon walls there hold ancient stories, and the air feels heavy with healing. It was misty and cold, the kind of morning where the world is alive and hushed at once. Water slipped over frozen ledges, reminding me that life keeps moving even when we feel stuck.
The Release
Standing beneath that cliff, I lifted my arms to the sky — a gesture of both grief and gratitude. It wasn’t planned; it just happened — a moment of surrender. I gave my silent goodbye.
That photograph he captured of me holds what words never could: the mix of sorrow, relief, love, and letting go. It was the first time I allowed myself to breathe again.
The Healing
Hiking has always been my therapy, but that day it became my prayer.
Each step reminded me that healing isn’t about forgetting — it’s about carrying love forward in a different form.
As nurses, we walk others through their hardest days, yet we rarely offer ourselves the same compassion. Losing my mother reminded me to pause, to feel, and to honor my own humanity.
“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. For those who love with heart and soul, there is no such thing as separation.” — Rumi
Now, every trail I walk carries her memory. In the wind through the trees and the rhythm of my breath on the climb, I still hear her. She walks with me — always.
If you’re walking through loss, may you find your own trail toward peace. Nature has a way of reminding us that love never really leaves.
— The Nurse Hiker’s Journey
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