Persona in Progress

Finding hope in soft hues of blue

Image: [Spuyan] / iStock

This week was a difficult week for me. Hold on, let me start that again. It wasn’t a bad week; it was just one where I had to navigate all sorts of emotions.

It started like most weeks do, with a jam-packed Monday filled with meetings. We’re also in the last stretch of the year, trying to close off projects and finish strong. There were some new developments at work, too. I had been given a more strategic role, something I had prayed for, and it had finally come true. I was one step closer to achieving my career goals, and I could feel the excitement bubbling up inside me. I wanted to laugh, cry, and do a little happy dance all at once.

As the week progressed, I checked my calendar and realised that my mom’s birthday was coming up. She would have turned 74 this week.

I almost forgot, and I berated myself for it. I wondered if I was beginning to “forget” her. It’s been just over four years since she passed away, and I miss her so much. Grief is a funny thing; the pain never really goes away. I’ve just learned to grow around the empty hole in my heart.

Recently, I reached out to a high school friend who had shared something about her grieving journey after losing her mom a few months ago. I offered comfort and a safe space if she ever needed it. As we chatted, I told her that losing my mom felt like permanently injuring my dominant hand. The pain wasn’t as unbearable as an amputation, but it was always there. Some days it throbbed, some days it ached quietly, and on others it simply felt numb. The injury didn’t stop me from living my life, but there was always something missing, a quiet emptiness.

I was reminded of that “injury” this week, not just because I missed my mom on her birthday, but because I had completely forgotten that I would have told her about my new role. You see, my mom prayed for my success. She was always wishing for me to thrive in my career. From a young age, she encouraged me to excel at school. She emphasised the importance of education, hard work, and independence.

She’s honestly one of the driving forces behind my passion and grit. She was a trailblazer in her own way. When she found herself unemployed after her teaching contract wasn’t renewed, she made a plan. She cooked samoosas and baked cakes for nine months until she found a new teaching role. Later, when she realised she needed to be the teacher her autistic child (my older brother) required, she pivoted from specialising in chemistry to earning a degree in special needs education.

I miss her so much. I wish I could pick up the phone and tell her about my new role. I wish I could show her a photo of the pretty new notebook I bought. I wish I could show her how healthy my hair is looking. I wish I could say, “Thank you, Mummy, your prayers have been answered.” But I can’t, and that hurts.

Still, I noticed a glimmer among all these emotions. Mummy loved flowers and gardening, and with all the rain Johannesburg has had this week, my hydrangeas have been showing off. They’re in full bloom, in gorgeous hues of blue. As I rushed out the door this morning, I noticed the stunning blooms and took a few cuttings to bring to the office. I saw it as my mummy’s gift to me. Perhaps she’s watching over me, silently cheering me on as I bloom in this new chapter.

As I sip a cup of tea in my new office, I’m thankful for the beauty of the hydrangea blooms sitting on my desk. Their petals catch the afternoon light, a small reminder that love doesn’t disappear; it transforms. Maybe this is what healing looks like, learning to find comfort in quiet symbols, in blooms that carry whispers of those we miss most.

So I look at the hydrangea, and I breathe. I remind myself that it’s okay to feel everything at once, the pride, the ache, the gratitude, and still keep blooming through the blur.