Eighth of August, Eight Years Gone, and Still Raising Hell in My Heart

08/08. Born on this day in 1944. Gone from this world eight years now. And somehow still managing to take up space in every room I walk into. Still echoing. Still rolling her eyes. Still showing up in my voice, my humor, and every time I lose my shit at exactly the wrong moment.

There’s something poetic—and a little spooky—about all the eights. It’s the number of infinity, yes, but also the number of karma. Of comebacks. Of backbone. She was the eight. The full set. She was born in the middle of a war and lived like she was always halfway between a peace offering and a firebomb.

And as she often reminded people, with that calm-before-the-storm voice:
“Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit.”

Heart Like a Velvet-Covered Cactus

She had a huge heart—no question. But sometimes it felt like loving her meant signing up to hug a porcupine in a windstorm. She was raised by a military father who wanted a son and didn’t know how to show love, and a Scorpio mother who was too busy surviving to coddle anyone. By age ten, she was caring for two younger siblings like it was normal. Because in her world, it was. Emotions were inconvenient. Softness was weakness. So she armored up, stayed quiet, and learned to handle things herself.

She loved me—deeply and fiercely—but emotional safety wasn’t something she knew how to provide. If I cried, she’d stiffen. If I got overwhelmed, she’d look at me like I’d started speaking dolphin. She wasn’t trying to be cold. She was just... forged in fire. There wasn’t time for feelings when survival was on the table.

I Miss the Woman Who Could Make Me Laugh Mid-Explosion

Even at her angriest, she could be hilarious. She’d be mid-rant, eyes blazing, voice descending into the lowest register—and then she’d say something so unexpectedly her that I’d crack up.

She’d glare at me. “You think that’s funny?”
And I’d say, “The way you said that? It’s hilarious.”
And she’d try to hold her face, but then she’d crack too. That laugh? That rare, real laugh? Worth everything.

I miss that. I miss her strength. I miss how capable she was. I miss her humor, even when it showed up wrapped in rage. I miss the woman who could juggle chaos like it was part of the daily routine, and somehow still roast you with a one-liner that left you gasping.

She Taught Me to Rescue Myself (and How to Mistrust, Unfortunately)

My mom never taught me to wait for someone else to fix my life. She taught me to stand up, square my shoulders, and fix my own damn problems. That independence? That ability to keep going no matter what? That’s her.

But so is the suspicion. The guardedness. The inability to let people in without first checking for sharp edges. She handed me her armor before I even knew I was wearing it. I’ve had to unlearn some of that. I’ve had to figure out how to let softness in—how to let love in—and not see it as a liability.

And in trying not to be her, I overcorrected. I wanted to give my kids the emotional freedom I didn’t have—but I didn’t yet know how to handle my own emotions, let alone theirs. It turned into a bit of a train wreck. A good-hearted shit show. But at least it was mine.

What I’d Say to Her Now

Thank you.

For the strength. For the resilience. For the brutal honesty, even when it hurt. For doing the best you could with what you had. For teaching me to fight when needed, and to laugh even when I was drowning.

And also… I forgive you.

Not because it erases anything. But because I see now that you were doing what you were taught. What you had to. And I know how heavy that must’ve been.

Wherever you are now—whatever healing looks like on the other side—I’ll hold space for you. I’ll carry your strength, but I won’t carry the weight you never should’ve had to bear. Not every moment calls for steel. Some just call for love.

Carrying Her Forward (With Her Higher Self Riding Shotgun)

I used to think honoring my mom meant living like her—tough, guarded, handling it all on my own. But that was her survival self. Her war-self. The part of her that never got a chance to rest. I don’t think that’s who she is now.

Now? I imagine her softer. Lighter. Laughing more. Maybe wearing those slippers her niece slipped into her coffin. (That’s a whole different story…lol.) I imagine her watching me figure it out down here and saying, “It’s okay to let people help you. It’s okay to not know. You don’t always have to go full porcupine.”

So that’s how I’ll bring her with me. Not just as the woman who raised me, but as the soul who’s still learning right alongside me. I’ll carry her strength, sure—but I’ll also practice softness. I’ll honor her grit, but I’ll choose peace when I can. I’ll keep her humor alive, especially in the middle of chaos, and I’ll keep listening for her voice when the world gets too loud.

Because I think her higher self would approve of that version. The one who finally gets to rest. The one who trusts me to take it from here.

xo,

Lily-Jade