Birthdays are more special since Mum passed softly away. Now they're a day for celebrating her life, not mine.

I clearly recall memories of noisy parties with small friends. On my seventh birthday, my sister baked me a birthday cake in the shape of a seven, covered in a rainbow of smarties. I still see the bright golden lion brooch that Mum gave me, sparkling.

And now Mum's no longer here, I recall the sweetest of memories of her simply being my Mum. 

Now and then, I forget she's gone. I so badly want to speak to her again that I think it's some dreadful nightmare I'll wake from. I love her with all my heart. And it hurts that I can't remind her of that one more time.

I never imagined that there'd be such a solid line in my life delineating life with and life without her. I feel sorry I was unable to imagine the sorrow other friends and family felt when they lost their loved ones. And yet it's only when "it's happened to you" that you truly understand that heartbreak - and what gut-wrenching means. You know too well that yearning to have them back, so you can go back to the way things were. Where you didn’t live with the hurt. But you can’t go back. You can only go forward. And so instead, you find yourself going back to the memories. Trying to remember the tiniest of details.

These days I find myself drawn to people who've experienced a similar loss. Whether they lost a grandparent, a parent, a sibling or a friend – you know they too have felt the heavy weight of that loss. You know they too have been softened. That they worry less about the trivia of life. That they are on a constant search for beauty and kindness in the world. And you find yourself drawn to children, who remind you of what it feels to live carefree. Who giggle brightly at silly things. Who feel joy in the wonder of new things. And it transports you back to the lighter time when you too were a child…

I recall a black and white photo of Mum in a summer dress. My father tells me it was yellow. And since then, I've found myself smiling at the sight of a yellow butterfly. Somehow it feels like a small sign from Mum. Yesterday was my father's birthday – and sure enough, a yellow butterfly nestled nearby me. Call me crazy, but those fluttering wings are somehow comforting.

I remember how Mum used to sit me on a high kitchen stool and ask me how my day at school had been. I reminisce about how she dried me after a bath and dressed me in my favourite red and white striped pyjamas before putting me to bed. I remember the way she stroked my cheek to wake me in the morning. I remember the times we walked to town together, to enjoy tea and a scone in the cafe at BHS, before we went food shopping and took the bus home. Above all, I remember the time we spent together. The hugs. I remember the homemade cards and the weekly letters she wrote when I lived abroad. And I remember feeling loved. And the sincerity and security of that love.

I don’t think Mum ever felt she was good enough. And yet she was good enough at being my Mum. She taught me kindness. She taught me love. She taught me morals. She taught me the most important of life skills. I always felt her love was unconditional. That secure home environment has proved a strong foundation for the most important relationships in my life.

Maybe I have a rosy-eyed view of the world. Maybe I’ve forgotten the bad times. But I honestly don’t remember her ever telling me off! I’m sure I was naughty at times, and she must have raised her voice. But I don’t remember that. And I don’t really care if my memory fails me on that point. I only care about the happy times. I care about the love and laughter. Those are the memories I’ll cradle.  

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this all down. I was thinking of Mum today. And I needed a good cry. So I did. Then I felt a compulsion to write. So I am. And then I started thinking of all the Mums and Dads out there who sometimes feel they’re not good enough. The parents and guardians who are struggling to balance work, looking after the home and looking after the children. And I suppose I just wanted to say, please don’t worry so much. I’m sure you’re doing wonderfully. It isn’t easy holding everything together. But so long as you have time to hold your child forever, read them one more story and make them feel loved every day (not just on birthdays), well in my eyes, that’s something magical to celebrate.