In June 2025, I returned home from hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. It was one of those trips that leaves you feeling stronger than when you arrived. The climb was demanding, the scenery unforgettable, and reaching the summit felt like proof that I was capable of more than I had imagined. Standing at the top, I thought I had just accomplished one of the hardest things I would ever do.
Boy, was I wrong.
Not long after we unpacked our bags, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV metastatic stomach cancer. Just like that, the mountain I had just climbed no longer felt that daunting.
Over the next ten months, our family learned a new vocabulary and our calendars filled up with scans, treatments, doctor's appointments, and cautiously optimistic conversations. We celebrated good lab results. We adjusted plans. We hoped. We worried. We lived from one milestone to the next, believing there would be more time.
There wasn't. My mom passed away in May at just 64 years old.
There's a particular kind of grief that comes from looking at someone's life and thinking, there should have been more time. More memories with her grandchildren. More holidays. More Monday night dinners. More family vacations. More phone calls on my way home from work. More stories. More of everything.
My mom wasn’t simply someone I loved. She was one of the people holding our family together. Her love was woven into our everyday lives - not through grand gestures, but through countless ordinary acts that became the foundation of our daily life. Meals prepared without being asked. Holidays organized. Grandchildren cared for. She was the person who quietly noticed what needed to be done and did it before anyone thought to ask.
For most of my life, I experienced these acts simply as love. That's the strange thing about grief. It doesn't just make you miss someone. It reveals them more fully.
You begin to see the invisible work they carried. The traditions they protected. The relationships they nurtured. The countless ways they shaped your life without ever asking for credit. When someone like that is gone, the loss is felt everywhere.
This past year has made me more protective of my time and more generous with it. More intentional about family dinners, conversations with friends, and showing up for the people I love. It has reminded me that our lives are not built on extraordinary moments as much as they are on ordinary ones repeated over years.
A Monday night dinner.
A phone call on the drive home.
A meal dropped off without being asked.
An afternoon with grandchildren.
Those are the things that become priceless once they're no longer possible.
For a long time, I thought strength meant accomplishing difficult things. Building a business. Raising a family. Climbing mountains.
Now I think strength looks much quieter.
It looks like consistency.
It looks like generosity.
It looks like taking care of people without expecting recognition.
It looks like the life my mom lived.
I don’t know all the ways this loss will shape me, but what I do know is that a loss like this changes the architecture of a person. It changes what you notice, what you prioritize, and how you move through the world.
One year ago, I stood at the top of Machu Picchu believing I understood what it meant to be strong. This past year taught me something entirely different: the strongest people aren't always the ones who climb the highest mountains. Sometimes they're the ones who quietly become the foundation that everyone else stands on.
The Year That Changed the Architecture of My Life
