'There’s an aching emptiness in all the spaces mom used to fill in my life'

You see, Mom was fiercely single-minded, she trusted her instincts and lived life in a unique way, you could never predict which direction she’d take. More often than not, her determination was devoted to loving and helping others. While she didn’t want a special day for herself, she made everyone else feel special — every day.

Capturing her essence in words and explaining her to someone who never knew her feels impossible. But what I can tell you is that her life was defined by pure devotion. Love and care were like breathing to her — her default setting, gift, and purpose. She lived to be a mother, to build a family, and to cherish those around her: me, my brother Sam, my sister Lydia, my father Declan, our wider family, and even the staff at our family bakery, Bracken’s.

When her grandchildren arrived — first Alice, then Conor and Laurie, and later Tess — her capacity to love only seemed to expand. She embraced each new life with overflowing care and warmth, knitting them into our family in every sense.

And, quite literally, in the buildup to their arrivals, she would knit feverishly — tiny hats, ornate cardigans, and double-lined blankets to keep them warm even when she wasn’t there to hold them. She never got to meet Suki, the latest thread in the family web, but after her passing, we found an almost-finished cardigan tucked away in a bookshelf. Our aunt made the final tweaks to complete it — Suki’s closest connection to the feeling of being held by Mom.

All my life, Mom herself was my blanket of comfort and safety, and as I grew older, my best friend too. During the pandemic, I spent two years living at home in Cork. Our days were intimately connected: walks in the woods arm in arm, debriefing our days while cooking, painting her nails as she put her feet up in front of the TV. I became her in-house fitness trainer, facialist, meditation teacher, and personal assistant – booking appointments, ordering what she needed online – and her confidant. Truly getting to know her as a person, not just a mother, remains one of the greatest blessings of my life.

When I moved to Lisbon, our lives remained intertwined through WhatsApp messages and phone calls, sharing everything: daily schedules, work wins, relationship woes, dreams, and fears. It was never overwhelming, only supportive.

She was so present, so woven into my life, that the shock of her unexpected departure still reverberates through me as I try to make sense of a world without her.

I never know when the waves of grief will hit —whether it’ll be on an anniversary, like the recent six month mark, or at a random moment when the shocking reality that she is gone suddenly pierces through and I’m stopped in my tracks. 

There’s an aching emptiness in all the spaces she used to fill in my life, her silence is deafening.

I learned so much from her in life, but now, in her absence, I’m learning even more. Fittingly, the woman who taught me how to live is now teaching me about the flip side of life: death.

I’m learning that grief isn’t something to get over. It’s a continuation of love. Even when sadness sits at the surface, I don’t wish it away. It just means I feel close to her.

I’m learning that joy and sadness can coexist. I can miss her and laugh at her weird and wonderful quirks. I can miss her and smile. I can miss her quietly, without anyone knowing.

I’m learning that grief deepens our experience of life. When you lose someone so significant, it’s as if a curtain has been pulled back. You see death
everywhere but also experience love and life more profoundly. The pain carves out space for a deeper appreciation of joy.

I’m learning that we don’t talk about death enough. My mom, for one, hated the topic. The very evening before her passing, after the kids had been put to bed, conversation hadn’t long wandered in the direction of mortality before she asked to change the subject.

Now, I want to talk about it often. Death is part of the human experience. Instead of fearing it, we should actively seek to embrace our impermanence. Death teaches us how to live. It reminds us to love fiercely and be present in the fleeting, beautiful moments that make up a life.

As Mary Oliver says, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” 

If you meet me, don’t feel like you need to tiptoe around my loss. Ask me about my mother, I love talking about her, and tell me about your loved ones. 

I don’t want to bandage the wound and pretend it’s not there. I want to keep the connection alive, to keep her alive, even when it hurts. And I do still feel that connection intensely. Whenever I left home, Mom would message me as I travelled back to say that a string always connected us, stretching with the distance but never breaking.

I last saw her for the last time in June 2024 in Tavira, Portugal, a cherished family holiday spot. While there, she bought red string bracelets for me, Sam, Lydia, and herself. I later learned of the red string myth in many Asian cultures — a tale of an invisible thread connecting those destined to love each other, no matter the time, place, or circumstances. The cord may stretch, but it never breaks.

Our string is stretched to its limit now, yet I feel more connected to her than ever. She’s not here, but she’s everywhere. When I face a challenge, I know exactly what she would say. When I see something beautiful — a sunrise, a full moon, an act of kindness — she rushes into my mind.

Sometimes I wonder how she would want me to carry on without her. And I know she would say to keep going, to live with the same fierce love she did. To show up for the people I love. To embrace life, even with its heartbreak. To love and live without hesitation.

The last time I saw her was at Tavira bus station. On my way back to Lisbon, I got a message from her: “My darling, I never said I love you with all my heart. Our string is being stretched again.”

And though she is gone, I know that string will never break.

• Erica Bracken is a yoga teacher, and also works in PR. You can follow her on Instagram, @Erica_Bracken. Her mother, Finola Halbert Bracken, was the Glenville businesswoman behind Bracken’s Bakery and its northside bakery, shop and café.