The Passing of a Parent

Above: An urn placed in a floral setting atop a wooden table. The urn has a lighthouse etched into the stone. Next to the floral setting is a 5x7” frame with a photo of my mother.

April 29, 2025

I thought I would be able to get back on track with writing book four of The Way of the Wielder series in April, but that…didn’t happen.

Updates

Mission Aboard the Longfin: The cover for my first middle grade story is complete, and I love it. I’ve also shown it to my nephew, and he loved it, too. I’ll do a reveal in a couple of weeks, as well as complete my final read through before setting it up on Amazon (and a few others places, I think). Stay tuned!

Convergence of Connection: Cover art for book three of The Way of the Wielder series is now underway. A lot happens in this book, so the cover will likely be complex and full of foreshadowing. I’m excited to see how it comes out, and I’ll do a cover reveal in early-June. I need to complete a final read through of this as well, then I’ll set up the pre-order on Amazon. It’s coming together!

The Way of the Wielder, Book Four: I finished part one last week, and I’m about wrapped up with the first interlude. Now that I’m entering part two, things should start flowing nicely. I look forward to returning to a normal rhythm in May…

…unless the universe throws another wrench into things.

——

Content Warning: Discussion on parental death, and the grief that comes with it.

Three Weeks Ago

On the morning of April 8, I got a call from my younger brother. My heart sank before I even answered. It’s 9am on a Tuesday. He never calls at 9am on a Tuesday. Something’s happened.

And when I answered, his words rendered me speechless. “Get to the hospital. Mom had a heart attack.”

I packed an overnight bag in five minutes, was out the door in eight, and pulled into the hospital in fifty. But it didn’t matter. My mother was already gone.

The Passing of a Parent

Everyone knows someone who’s lost a parent. A friend, colleague, neighbor, maybe even our own parents have lost their parents (our grandparents). We see their grief, and we empathize with them on a deep level. But this empathy doesn’t prepare you for the death of your parent.

In some ways, it’s an expected loss. Our parents are two or three decades (or more) older than we are, so it’s only natural that they will pass in our lifetimes. And while that’s true, it’s a fact that doesn’t make it any easier when the time comes.

I’m a writer, and even I have a hard time finding the right words to describe it. There’s a sense of loss, of course, but it’s much deeper—and far more complex—than something as simple as that. It’s a fluid kind of grief, one that ebbs and flows over the course of time. And it’s different for everyone.

Beacons

Imagine a cove, with two lighthouses denoting the rocky points on each end. Those lighthouses are beacons, and they’ve been there for as long as you can remember, guiding you safely into harbor.

But when one of those beacons is gone, you become disoriented. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been at sea, or how well you know the shoreline, or if you haven’t relied on them for years. Those beacons were always there, silently offering guidance when you didn’t think you needed it—when you didn’t even think they were doing it. And now one of them is gone, and nothing will ever replace it.

This analogy is the best way I can describe how my mother’s death affects me.

I haven’t directly relied on my mother for almost twenty years. Once I entered my junior year of college, I spent my breaks and summers on campus, only making the hour-long trip home for holidays or when campus was closed. I wanted my independence (as most early-twenty-somethings do), and my mother respected that.

When I graduated, I transitioned fully into adulthood. I moved in with my boyfriend, went to grad school, got married, moved a few times, changed careers, etc. My mother and I kept in touch through it all, but I relied on her less and less as the years progressed.

In short, I’d become an experienced sailor. I knew the shoreline like the back of my hand, and I took for granted the comfort my mother’s beacon offered.

But despite that, her light was always there, guiding me to a place where I would always be safe and loved if the seas ever got too choppy. Now her light is gone, and suddenly I feel…not necessarily lost, but unsure.

My Biggest Fan

My mother and I were not the best friends you often see portrayed in mother-daughter relationships of Hollywood. We had our differences, got on each other’s nerves, and had almost none of the same hobbies or interests. But her love was unyielding—as was her support for me doing whatever it was that made me happy.

She knew how much joy I found in writing. And when I told her I was leaving my public relations job to write full-time, she was so proud of me for taking that leap of faith—for making my life better, and happier. There was never anything but support from her, and there was more of it than I ever expected.

When I published my first book last year, no one spread the word more than my mother. She shared links on Facebook, mentioned it to people at the grocery store, and even told the owner of a restaurant we went to one day that I was an author (much to my embarrassment).

A few months later, she got around to reading The Way of the Wielder, and her support grew tenfold. “I’ve never read romantic fantasy before, but this is amazing!” She told everyone she knew—and many she didn’t—and all but demanded they buy it immediately. When Mysteries of the Material came out, she bought it that day and had read it within a week. She called me practically in tears, desperately wanting to know what happened next, but not wanting me to spoil it for her.

“I won’t spoil it,” I said, “but just know it will have a happy ending…eventually.”

She was okay with that, but now I wish I had told her more.

My mother was, without a doubt, my biggest fan. That she will never know how Jaslan and Jack’s story ends upsets me more than I can explain. Even as I type this, tears trickle down my cheeks. I don’t have many regrets, but that one will haunt me forever.

I mentioned this to one of my cousins at my mother’s Celebration of Life last Friday, and she said to me, “But she will know how it ends, Sarah. She’s always with you, and is probably reading it over your shoulder as you type. She’ll know it before anyone else does.”

I hope that’s true. And if it’s not, they better have a library in heaven.

Moving On

Since my mother’s passing, I’ve experienced the gamut of emotions: sorrow, guilt, anger, loneliness, regret, etc. I’ve also felt many urges: to call her, to hug her, to send her a photo of the flowers blooming on our front walkway, to hear her laugh, to smell her Ciara perfume-infused clothes. Only now, three weeks later, am I finally starting to accept that she’s gone.

I know the future will be different without her. Sometimes, it will be downright difficult, especially those “firsts”: the first Mother’s Day, my birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. I’ll approach each of those with gentleness and self-compassion, and slowly allow myself to move on. She would want that, anyway. She liked to reminisce, but she always looked forward to what the future held.

“Never say never, Sarah,” she would tell me when I was unsure about myself or things to come. I’ll hear those words in the back of my mind forever now, and take comfort in hearing them in her voice.

——

Go hug your loved ones, and never, ever take for granted the light they offer you.

Thanks for reading. Until next time, be well, be kind, and stay creative.

~Sarah