“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are” - Arthur Goldman

The day that changed my life.
It was cold outside in the early hours of the morning, December 7th, 1995. I was tucked away — snug in my bed. Though the sun had not yet risen, I was awaken by the sound of my Dad’s voice. Through the bedroom door, I heard my Dad shuffle into the hall and declare, “It’s over, she’s gone.” I heard it, but did not move. I lay there, still, a million thoughts running through my head. Outside my room, people began moving around, busily. I stayed in my room. In the darkness. I had just lost my mother.

When most people think of the most important day in their life, they probably think of a happy occasion - a child’s birth, their wedding day, or a grand promotion. I think of that December morning. Losing my mother has shaped my life in more ways than I can even understand. It was a day marked with intense sadness. But it was also a day that marked my transition into adulthood — and a day that set me on a course toward many happy and wonderful events in my life. A new chapter had begun in my life, where I began to figure out who I was, what was important to me, and how I wanted to live my life.

My mother.
Sharon Denise Rose, or “Neisa” as she was known by her friends, was a joyful and colorful woman. A teacher by trade, but an artist by heart, she was the most fun mom. She instilled a love of learning and creativity in me and my little sister, Emily. Our house was creativity central. Emily and I were surrounded by paint brushes, rhinestone punchers, and glitter — and we could often be found with microphone or movie camera in hand. Her love for us could always be seen in the little things. The birthday party she tirelessly planned. The new hair bow she constructed for us while we were at school. The endless shuttling back and forth to music lessons and rehearsals. The old classic movies she would rent for us when we were sick. Her insistence that we gather around the table for a lovingly-prepared meal every evening. And she wasn’t just a great “Mom” — she was a friendly and hospitable neighbor, a fun friend, a respectful daughter, an adoring sister, and passionate wife. My memories of her all swirl with color — from her clothes (matching earrings and shoes always) to her laugh (loud, with her nose slightly scrunched) — she lived her life in full color.

My mother began her battle with brain cancer eight long years before that December morning. And through what was probably the most difficult trial anyone can go through, her character and beauty shown with even more beautiful color. She had the best attitude, never complaining about the excruciating pain she was in or about how she could feel her mental capacity slowly fading away. She endured her treatments (and they were horrific) with a smile on her face. She quickly became the doctors and nurses favorite patient. She still made our lunches everyday, still went on family vacations, still went with us to church every Sunday, and was even room-mom at our local elementary school. The grace and poise in which she carried herself all through this time taught me what true beauty is. Before cancer, I remember her being obsessive about how she looked. Yet, after countless round of radiation and surgery, when people would stare at her precious, hairless, and scar-ridden head out in public, she was never embarrassed or apologetic for the way she looked. She bore her battle wounds like a proud warrior.

The thing that stands out most when I remember my mother is the way she loved people. Weary souls always seemed to make their way to our home and to our dinner table. A friend suffering through a painful divorce or the lonely latch-key kid who lived down the street. Though you would have expected her to be depleted and empty, with nothing to give, my mother poured herself out for those people and loved doing it. And her love was returned by the many close friends that surrounded us. All through her struggle with cancer a group of close friends were there for our family when we needed it most. Their response to help us was born out of their deep love for my mother. She had left her colorful mark on their lives.

The impact suffering has had on my life.
There have been many books and articles written about the negative impact a death of a mother has on a young daughter. While I have certainly not been exempt from those negative effects, I think my mother’s death has shaped who I am today in a very positive way. I know that I would not have spent the time and energy that I have thinking of how I want to live my life, if I had not seen first hand how short life can be. We are not guaranteed a long life, and I want to live my life to its fullest. It is for that reason that I had the courage to pursue a music degree, even when I knew that it may not have as many career prospects as other degrees. It is for that reason that I chose to live in China for a summer after college, and to use real plates and cloth napkins every night for dinner (even if it is take-out). My definition of beauty was also impacted in a very positive way by my mother’s death. My beauty does not lay in my outward appearance or the perfect condition of my house. My beauty lies in battle wounds, a cozy couch where a friend can sit and open up to me about a failing marriage, and puppy prints on my clean hardwood floors. A dinner table doesn’t have to display the most magnificent centerpiece but instead should be used and worn and surrounded by people you love.

Most importantly, my mother’s death gave me an appreciation for the community around me. The way that my childhood community surrounded us during my mother’s illness made me realize how important it is to love and be loved by others. Even though my husband and I live in a big city, we have carved out a small community within it where we live our daily lives. We live, eat, shop, and go to church all within a five mile radius of our house. We have had to live a small house in a not so ideal neighborhood, but our life is so simple compared to others who live in the city. And we are surrounded by friends in the neighborhood that we see daily. Friends that we love and care about.

For all these reasons I can rejoice in my loss. I know that it has made me who I am today. A loving wife, devoted sister, respectful daughter, empathetic friend, and compassionate neighbor. When nothing else was guaranteed in my mother’s life, I think she knew her legacy would live on through me and Emily. For this reason she taught us to live a colorful life by living one in front of our eyes.

“Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” - Romans 5:3-4a