I’m writing this from Japan, where I’m traveling with my family during November—my mother’s anniversary month. Just like we set apart birthdays and holidays, I’ve learned to acknowledge and honor anniversary months too. This year, I chose to unravel my grief through travel, adventure, and family. But it wasn’t always this way.
November 16th, 19 years ago, it was 5:30 am. I was lying next to my mother in her bed, listening to her heartbeat—my first song. All night, I’d watched her breath go in and out as pauses between each breath grew longer until, finally, the next breath never came. I placed my ear to her heart. Nothing. This unconditional pulse of love that had guided, nurtured, and cared for me had suddenly stopped. I was 26. She was 49.
I ran to gather my brother and sisters from their sleeping beds and together we held our mother’s hands and sang her favorite song as she left her body.
Everything went gray after that. The fall colors seemed muted. Birds sang sad songs. Every time I tried to move—something I’d done instinctively since childhood—it felt like pushing through cement. I’d always been resilient, bouncing back quicker after difficult things. But this was different. This was my biggest and most devastating loss.
Growing up, I was always dancing. I processed everything—grief, pain, joy—through my body. “Please just stay still,” they’d say. But I didn’t know how to feel without moving. Now, I couldn’t move at all.
Then, in the darkness, at one of the lowest times in my life, I heard her voice:
Tara, just as you put your ear to my heart, it’s time to put your ear to your own heart. Listen—truly listen. Your heart is still beating. What is it telling you? Just as you gathered your siblings, gather your people. Then sing—together. Sing all the songs, songs of grief, joy, loss, trauma, suffering. Sing them loud and sing them together. One day, as you hold hands and sing together, you will realize the joy has been part of the grief the entire time. Deep joy that rises up when we allow ourselves to be cared for, especially during our darkest moments.
When I listened to my heart, I knew it was time to care for myself in a way I’d wanted to but couldn’t because I was caring for everyone else. Time to run wholeheartedly to what brought me joy: dance.
At 26 years old, I applied to grad school in Boulder, Colorado. As a nurse, it seemed crazy to lose three years of income and go into debt for a master’s in dance. But my belief was so strong that nothing could stop me. I didn’t get in the first year, but we moved to Colorado anyway. I worked as a travel nurse and danced with a local company. I reapplied the following year and was accepted.
This was probably the first time I chose something purely for myself, and when the world didn’t agree, it didn’t matter. I spent three years crying, singing, and dancing my grief—and finding my joy. I was grateful I could feel grief’s depths so I could eventually feel joy’s depths again. Joy doesn’t come without struggle, heartbreak, loss. Joy rises up when we are cared for and held in our suffering.
Here’s what I’ve learned about honoring anniversary months:
Honor your grief: Acknowledge the anniversary is coming. Ask yourself, “What do I need this year on this day?” Maybe you want to be with loved ones, talking about it; maybe you want space to do nothing; maybe a little of both? What is your heart needing?
Honor others’ grief: Remember the date and tell them that you remember. Ask how you can help them honor this loss on this day. Would they like company? I send flowers on anniversary days. Yes, flowers die and remind us of death, but they’re beautiful gestures. Just knowing someone remembers the hardest day of your life makes you feel seen and cared for.
Remember, you don’t have to grieve alone. Gather your people, hold their hands and sing with them. We heal in relationship with one another. bell hooks says it best: “Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”
Take a moment and put your ear to your own heart. What song is it singing?
P.S. Happy Anniversary, Mama. I love you and I miss you terribly. You would love Japan. Your grandchildren are 10 already—can you believe it? I wish they could feel your warmth, your hugs, and all your wet kisses. We are doing our best to find all the joy together. I know you would be so proud.
