It has been four months since my mom died, and since then, it has felt like I have entered another dimension.

Many people attempted to prepare me. They told me how I would feel and what I should be doing with my grief to avoid self-destruction. I even tried to prepare myself. Many nights after we had received her terminal diagnosis, I scoured the internet for other 25-year-olds who had lost their only parent. I hoped I could cushion the blow if I read enough.

Of course, grief this intense and personal does not have a one-size-fits-all formula. My mom was my life, a single mother and best friend. We would stay up late sharing all the smack talk we were strong enough to restrain in the face of unbearable people, have pizza picnics on the living room floor, run off on spontaneous road trips, and play basketball with our laundry. We did this even into my twenties. She was energetic, hardworking, humble, and exceptional in every way, but I’m not here to write another eulogy for her. Eulogies comfort and reassure the loved ones she left behind.

This blog will not be a eulogy. Its purpose is not meant to comfort and reassure. Its purpose is simply to exist, to document this new dimension with grace and surrender without angle or agenda.

Four months since her passing and six months since her diagnosis, this new dimension is quiet. The craziness of managing my mom’s pain late into the night, funeral planning, estate handling, and house cleaning is waning, leaving more time to look around. It is quiet.

It is the type of quiet that you might experience from outer space. It is peaceful yet powerful, commanding you to witness the infinity before you. Despite all the advice I received, no one told me it could feel like this. (Actually, two people, but we had interestingly similar situations.)

I feel untethered, uncomfortable, humbled yet strong, self-assured, and free. This new dimension is an infinity of promise, and I have nothing left but to walk through. Will you join me?