This is Jan.
She was my mother.
She died 16 years ago today. And I still miss her.
She was a woman of depth, strength, and warmth. She carried me, held me, taught me, and loved me in ways that still echo through my life. When I look back at old photos like this one, I see not just her smile—I feel her presence. She is still with me.
The night before she died, I sat at her bedside. She told me she couldn’t leave—that she needed to stay and take care of my kids. Their birth mother had already passed, and she felt the weight of needing to hold them too.
I told her: It’s okay. They’re safe. I’ll watch over them. I’ll carry them.
And with that, she let go. She left peacefully, knowing she was loved.
There have been dark, painful chapters since then. Things I wish I could have shielded my kids from. Sometimes I feel like I let her down. Like I didn’t keep the promise I made that night.
But then I remember the deeper truth: her love was never conditional. She knew life would test me, test us. She trusted me not because she thought I’d be perfect, but because she knew I would keep getting back up, keep choosing love, keep walking forward with my kids in my arms.
So today, I honor her.
I honor her memory, her laughter, her unconditional love.
And I honor the way she is still woven into me.
I love you, Mom. I miss you. And I carry you with me, always.