You Were My Mother, Too: Grieving a Chosen Mother | We’re Not Talking About That… by JBE Mindful Pathways

A quiet love letter to the ones who mothered us without obligation… and the grief we carry when they’re gone.

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You weren’t the woman who gave me life.
But you gave me something just as rare—
a sense of being loved for who I really was, not what I came from.

We didn’t share blood.
But somehow, you became home.
You stepped into my life without force, and stayed without condition.

From the very beginning, you loved my children like they were your own.
You didn’t have to.
But you did—with a kind of quiet joy that made them feel chosen, seen, safe.
You didn’t just visit us.
You showed up—every Sunday after church, like clockwork, for five years straight.
And every Sunday, I cooked just for you.

I knew what you could eat, what you couldn’t.
You never had to ask.
I remembered the textures you could handle, and made sure every bite was gentle—something your smile could enjoy without pain.
I made sure nothing would ever make you feel left out at my table.
You were more than a guest—you were the reason I kept the tradition going.
Creating new dishes became my way of saying,
I see you. I love you. You matter here.

You never asked for anything, but I wanted to give you everything.
Because you gave me something I didn’t know I needed—
a mother’s presence without pressure, without judgment.
You saw strength in me I was too tired to prove.
You believed in the woman I was becoming, even on the days I couldn’t believe in myself.

They say grief hits hardest when someone leaves a space no one else knew how to fill.
And that’s what you were—
the space-filler, the heart-healer, the unexpected chapter I never saw coming.
You didn’t raise me.
But you raised the standard for what motherly love could look like.

I wanted so badly to give you everything you deserved—
a daughter-in-law you could brag about, a family you could feel proud to be part of.
Not because I felt pressured,
but because loving you made me want to become better.

You were the calm in my storms.
The laughter in my kitchen.
The quiet eyes that watched over my children like they were your own legacy.

And now that you’re gone, there’s a silence that echoes in the spaces you used to fill.
The empty chair on Sundays.
The missing voice that once called me by name with such gentle warmth.
People don’t always understand why I grieve you like this.
But they don’t have to.
My soul remembers.
My heart knows.

You were my mother, too.
And I loved you more than I had the words to say while you were here.

In loving memory of Barbara Laczi Epps.

You became my mother in all the ways that mattered. Thank you for loving me, for seeing me, and for making space for me in your heart. This is for you.— Juju Divine Empress