Mother’s Day, 6 Years Later

Dear Mama,

Six years ago, I began the most incredible and most painful experience of my life.

Six years ago, I waved goodbye to you and Dad as I stepped into the airport security line, ready to board a plane to Germany for what was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime.

And six years ago—just one day before that flight—I was the first person to know you had cancer.

A bittersweet beginning, to say the least.

I remember standing in line at the Munich airport, waiting to check my luggage for the next leg of my journey, when a stranger approached. She handed me a piece of chocolate, smiled, and said, “Happy Mother’s Day!” before skipping off.

I stared after her, then looked down at the chocolate in my hand. That’s right—it was Mother’s Day. And I had just left my mother behind after she heard the most terrifying news of her life.

As horrible as it was to be an ocean away from you, as much as I cried into my pillow each night, as much as I clung to my phone in train stations, pubs, and football stadiums—desperate for updates on your surgeries and prognosis—I knew I’d made the right choice.

Because you told me so.

You were so excited for me. So proud. You wanted me to see the world, to go places you never got to. You cheered me on even as you were facing the unthinkable.

Well, Mama—guess what?

That wasn’t my last trip to Germany.

In fact, I’m moving here.

Right now, as I write this, I’m sitting in a restaurant in Regensburg, sipping wine and eating pasta on a work trip. I’m here for two weeks, getting my bearings before I make the move permanent in a few months.

When I realized this trip would land on Mother’s Day, I felt it in my chest—like the circle had quietly closed.

Six years ago, I was cracked open. Missing you. Scared and far from home.

And now? I’m still missing you. I always will.

But I’m also living out something you dreamed for me. And every moment of it feels like a tribute.

Every time I pass an ancient building that’s somehow also a cake shop, I think of you.

Every time I fumble through ordering in German or say “Danke schön” to a kind stranger, I think of you.

Every time I look around and realize how lucky I am to be here, I think of how fiercely you fought—how deeply you believed your daughters could go anywhere, do anything.

You’re not just across the ocean anymore. You’re somewhere I can’t reach. Somewhere I can’t even imagine. But I know this: if I could board a plane the day after hearing you were going to die, I can board one now. No matter how scary or uncertain it feels.

You taught me to be brave.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m being brave. I’m building a life in a place you never got to see but always hoped I would.

And I hope—wherever you are—that a small piece of you is coming with me.

I love you, Mama.

And for me, every day in Germany is Mother’s Day.

I miss you. Always.