Dear Hope: Since my mom died I don’t feel like I can function normally. Will this ever go away?

Dear Hope, since my mom died I don’t feel like I can function normally anymore. It’s like my brain has been put on pause. I’m finally trying to get back on my feet after her death last year, but I don’t have the motivation to get anything done. My brain seems to barely be functioning…what’s going on? Will this ever go away? Or will I never be who I was before all of this?

When someone close to us dies the world doesn’t just feel different… it is different. The world is split open. And you’re expected to keep showing up. Like you didn’t just lose the person who made you, held you, knew you before you did. 

But here you are, a year later, still in the fog. Still asking why can’t I get it together? Why can’t I think straight?

My official diagnosis: grief brain. 

What is Grief Brain?

It’s what happens when your nervous system slams the brakes entirely. 

You forget words midsentence. 

You reread the same email five million times and still have no clue what Ned from accounting is saying. 

You lose track of time, forget your appointments, and can barely get the motivation to brush your teeth. 

You feel like a shell of who you were before. 

It’s not laziness. Or your body shutting down on you. It’s you trying to survive in a reality you never asked for. And it’s pretty damn exhausting. 

You Won’t Be Who You Were – And That’s Okay

The version of you that existed before your mom died? 

They’re gone. 

I know, it’s hard to hear. 

But that person, who you were, doesn’t know the all-encompassing truth of living a life without her. 

They don’t understand the sting in your throat after crying for days on end. 

They don’t get what it’s like to just want one last hug from her, and the shattering emptiness of knowing it will never come. 

It’s heartbreaking to realize you will never be the same. But who you become next, that part’s still yours to shape.

You might feel like you're malfunctioning now.
But it’s just grief moving through your body.
Forcing you to let go, to fall apart, to crumble at the foundation. To do whatever needs to be done.

So that, one day, piece by fragile piece, you can begin to rebuild.
Not back to who you were, but into someone who carries love and loss in the same breath.
Someone softer, deeper, braver than before.

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