While Michelle Zauner and I had distinctly different experiences with our mothers, the grief we both carry stems from our immense love for them. Personally, I didn’t shed a tear when my mother passed away. Please don’t misunderstand — we had a close relationship. Despite my parents’ separation, my mother always remained a presence in my life, ensuring that I never felt forgotten. She would snap photos of us whenever we were together, capturing each moment as a cherished memory. Even when we were apart, she would send me prayers and health reminders through Viber, sometimes even sending me food so I could feel her love with every bite. From these anecdotes alone, it is evident that my mother loved me deeply, and my love for her was just as profound. So it may seem perplexing that I remained dry-eyed from the moment I learned of her passing in 2021 until her casket was sealed forever. The truth is, I simply didn’t know how to grieve at that time. I chose not to reveal her death to my closest friends. When one of my high school friends discovered the news through my sister’s Facebook post, I requested that she keep it to herself because the thought of seeking comfort from others disgusted me. For some reason, I didn’t want to be the friend who needed consolation; rather, I wanted to be the strong friend who offers solace to others. To this day, I have only confided in three friends about this, excluding the Grab driver to whom I divulged my entire life story during a forty-minute ride. However, late last year, I stumbled upon the book “Crying in H Mart” by Michelle Zauner (Alfred A. Knopf). It is a beautifully written memoir that delves into the author’s complex relationship with her mother, her struggle with her mother’s eventual death, and the measures she took to keep her mother’s memory alive. Even before I finished reading the first page, tears began to well up in my eyes. On the surface, it may appear as though Zauner and I have completely different narratives. She witnessed her mother gradually succumb to terminal cancer, while my siblings and I were mere participants in a five-way phone call with the doctor trying to revive her when she was rushed to the hospital. My mother’s death was sudden and unexpected, unlike Zauner’s slow and painful loss. However, our stories intersect in more ways than one. “If there was a god, it seemed my mother must have had her foot on his neck, demanding good things come my way.” Whenever something good happens to me, my first instinct is to call my mother — momentarily forgetting that her booming voice will never again be on the other end of the line. Even now, I imagine my mother pressuring the higher powers to shower me with success, just as she did when she was alive. When she passed away, I was in the midst of applying for my university’s student publication. Becoming a journalist had always been my dream, and my mother was well aware of this. I carried on with my application, using it as a distraction from the whirlwind of emotions that were consuming me. I even worked on some of the requirements at her wake, typing away as people came and went from the chapel, offering their condolences. My mind was racing in a million different directions. I knew I didn’t have the capacity to produce an application that wouldn’t immediately be discarded, but I submitted it anyway. To my astonishment, I received an acceptance letter a week later. I like to think that it was my mother pulling some strings from heaven to secure my acceptance. Becoming a campus journalist jumpstarted my career, providing me with the opportunity to write for esteemed publications that I never believed I was worthy of. I owe it all to my mother. “My grief comes in waves and is usually triggered by something arbitrary.” While I attribute all the good news to my mother, there are moments when I find myself tearing up at the slightest reminder of her. During a visit to Watsons one day to purchase my regular toiletries, I found myself trying out various perfumes in the fragrance aisle. I grabbed a green tester bottle of Body Fantasies perfume, sprayed it, and instantly felt a lump forming in my throat. It was my mother’s signature scent, Cucumber Melon. If not for the other customers in the store, I would have burst into tears right then and there. On another occasion, a friend made a lighthearted “mama mo” (your mom) joke. Given my sense of humor, I would typically laugh and retort with a playful joke of my own. However, this time, I felt a pit in my stomach. It was a silly reason to feel sad, really. I mean, who gets emotional over a harmless joke about their mother, right? But through “Crying in H Mart,” I’ve come to understand that grief chooses its own timing. It arrives when you least expect it and has the power to suspend everything around you. That’s what makes grief so profound. Yes, it’s incredibly painful, but this pain is rooted in one thing: love. “The lessons she imparted, the proof her life lived on in me, in my every move and every deed. I was what she left behind. If I could not be with my mother, I would be her.” Initially, I was clueless about how to mourn my mother’s death. Although I’ve mentioned her a few times during some of my classes, this is the first time I’m openly writing about her for others to see. I must admit, I haven’t completely become comfortable discussing my mother so openly. However, I’ve chosen to honor her in two ways: by keeping her spirit alive through my writing and by embodying her. In subtle ways that only my family would notice, I find ways to emulate her essence and fill in the gaps left by unspoken words. I now wear her silver and gold bracelets on my left wrist. They have become an integral part of my everyday appearance, rarely ever absent from my attire. Earlier this year, two years after her passing, I visited my mother’s house for the first time to sort through her belongings. I brought home a whole heap of her clothes, which I now wear when I go to sleep at night. I used to receive comments about how I resemble my mother perfectly. I never quite understood why. I didn’t believe I looked that much like her. However, now alongside the remark “your mom would be so proud of you,” it is the comment I cherish the most. I have her round nose, the dark circles around her eyes, her long fingers, and even her slightly protruding front teeth. I used to dislike the way my teeth looked, but how could I possibly despise something that my mother and I shared? She is also the reason why I have over 10,000 photos and videos on my camera roll. As a temperamental pre-teen, I vehemently detested taking pictures. I embodied the stereotype of the child forced by their mother to smile for a photograph. However, like my mother, I’ve come to appreciate the value of capturing every detail of my waking moments with loved ones.
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