It’s strange how quickly—and slowly—a year passes. I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting, sorting through memories like old photographs, holding some tightly and letting others drift quietly away.

A year ago, my mother passed away. It was one of those dreary, rainy days, gray and quiet—the kind where everything feels a bit heavier, colors muted, as if the world itself sensed something had changed. Since then, rain has become something more than just weather; it’s become a quiet companion, a gentle reminder of loss, and a space for reflection.

In the past year, I’ve learned that grief isn’t linear. It comes in waves, in quiet moments, in traditions we couldn’t bear to revisit, in a summer lake we never returned to, and in holidays that felt incomplete without her laughter.

Grief changes us. At times, it feels heavy enough to stop us in our tracks. But somehow, we keep moving. The rain has taught me that healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about acknowledging what’s missing, honoring it, and moving forward, even when it’s hard.

Below is a poem I wrote to mark this past year—a quiet reflection, inspired by the rain, and all the moments we’ve missed.

The Year Without You

The rain has come and gone,
more times than I can count,
but never the way it did that day.

Spring arrived, bringing its usual promise,
but nothing felt quite the same.

Summer came, heavy and bright,
but we never made it to the lake.
The water sat still, waiting,
but we couldn’t bring ourselves to meet it.

Autumn settled in, crisp and golden,
but the season felt thinner somehow,
the traditions we carried now half-full,
as if waiting for something that wouldn’t return.

Winter crept in quietly,
its silence too sharp, too heavy.
We ran from the emptiness,
chased warmth in other places,
but it followed, settling into the spaces
you left behind.

And now the rain is here again,
soft, steady, waiting.
“Has it really been a year?”
The words feel heavy in my mouth.

The drops keep falling,
steady, unchanging,
as if to say,
“You kept moving and that’s enough.”

I let the rain find me,
filling the spaces between the moments I missed,
between the words I never got to say.

It does not try to comfort,
does not try to heal—
it only falls,
as it always has,
as it always will.

—

If you’ve lost someone, maybe this will resonate. Maybe rain speaks to you, too. I’d love to hear how you’ve carried forward those you’ve lost.