I still mother them….

I don’t remember a time when my mom wasn’t sick.

From the time I was about seven years old, hospital rooms, doctor appointments, treatments, and medications were just part of our life. It was our normal.

But when I think about my mom, I don’t think about sickness.

I think about sitting by her bedside late at night reading Reader’s Digest stories out loud. We’d laugh at the funny ones and cry at the sad ones. Then one of us would inevitably ask, “Do you think they made that story up?” and we’d start laughing all over again.

I think about playing Uno for hours.

I think about matching Christmas pajamas.

I think about Barbie clothes she hand-sewed for me and clothes she made for my dolls.

I think about my cranberry-colored velvet homecoming dress from St. Elizabeth with pearls across the top. I can still see it. I thought it was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen.

She made my wedding gown, too.

The funny thing is, she never taught me how to sew.

I never learned.

Maybe because I always thought she’d be here forever.

I always thought there would be time.

Isn’t that what we all think?

That there will be another Christmas, another conversation, another chance to learn what we haven’t learned yet.

Then one day there isn’t.

Looking back, I realize my mother wasn’t teaching me how to sew anyway.

She was teaching me something much bigger.

She was teaching me how to keep going.

My mom was sick for a huge part of her life, but I never remember her sitting around talking about everything she couldn’t do. I never remember her feeling sorry for herself. I never remember her quitting.

She got up.

She showed up.

She made things.

She loved people.

She kept going.

Maybe that’s why one of the few things I have absolutely no use for is laziness.

Not weakness.

Not illness.

Not grief.

Not depression.

Not people who genuinely need help.

Laziness.

Wasted potential.

People who are capable of more and simply choose not to.

That makes me crazy.

Maybe it’s because I watched my mother fight for every day she was given.

Maybe it’s because I’ve buried two children.

Maybe it’s because I’ve lost vision in my right eye and still got up and went to work.

Maybe it’s because life has taught me over and over again that tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I don’t understand wasting today.

I don’t understand sitting on your gifts, your talents, your opportunities, and your dreams while waiting for the perfect time.

I don’t understand spending years complaining instead of changing.

And maybe that’s because I’ve spent too much of my life watching people fight for one more day.

My mother would’ve loved one more healthy day.

Vincent would’ve loved one more day.

Gabriella would’ve loved one more day.

When you’ve watched people desperately hold onto life and then watched life slip away from people you love, you stop looking at time the same way.

You realize that today matters.

This ordinary Tuesday matters.

This random conversation matters.

This opportunity matters.

This life matters.

I didn’t learn resilience because someone sat me down and explained it to me.

I learned it sitting in hospital rooms.

I learned it watching my mother live with grace when she had every reason not to.

I learned it from a woman who never stopped showing up.

I didn’t realize it then, but she was preparing me for all of it.

For the losses.

For the heartbreak.

For the leadership roles.

For the moments when quitting would’ve been easier.

She taught me that life isn’t about waiting for perfect circumstances.

It’s about doing something with the time you’ve been given.

And maybe that’s why laziness and wasted potential bother me so much.

Because I’ve seen firsthand how precious one more day can be.

And I’ve seen firsthand that not everybody gets one.