On August 19, 2018, at 1:19am, my mama took her last breath. Seven years later, the memory of that day still feels sharp and heavy.

On the morning of August 18th, I woke up to a message from my grandparents: We’re on a plane, we’ll message when we get to JFK and let you know what time we’ll land in San Diego. Almost at the same moment, a text from my dad came through. He asked me to cancel my plans and come to the hospital with my sister to see my mama. As I read those words, my heart dropped into my stomach.

I texted my best friend—a nurse (my true saving grace)—and said, This can’t be good, right? I needed her to prepare me for what I knew deep down was coming but couldn’t bear to accept. My youngest sister and I loaded into the car and drove to the hospital. When we walked into the room, my dad was standing there—the smallest I’ve ever seen him look. Defeated, but still trying to be strong for us.

As the three of us stood there together, he spoke the sentence I have carried with me for seven years: Girls, your mama isn’t going to make it. We have to say goodbye.

Every hair on my body stood up. My skin chilled. My heart raced. The words I never wanted to hear rang in my ears and echoed in my brain: I thought we had more time. In that moment, I thought about my other sister, who was away on a girls’ trip and racing to get to the hospital. I remember feeling torn between wanting her there so badly, and knowing that no matter how fast she came, time was no longer on our side. Even now, seven years later, I still ache when I think about how desperate we all were just to be in the same room, to hold on to even one more minute with her.

They transitioned my mama to a different room, and throughout the day people began to arrive. Everyone who could be there, came. My dad’s best friend from college, his cousins and their children from Orange County, her friends from yoga, and of course us. My aunt and uncle and cousins drove hours just to be with us on the hardest day of our lives. We ended up taking over an entire hospital lounge—one I hope I never have to see again—the kind of place built to hold families as they say goodbye.

The day was filled with tears and hushed words. We surrounded her with love, reminding her over and over that she was everything to us. At the same time, we begged her gently to please hold on just a little longer, so her parents could make it to say goodbye. It felt like a race against time, and we were all holding our breath, praying she’d wait for them.

My grandparents landed just before midnight. They rushed to her side. At 1:19am, she slipped away, knowing that if love was enough- she would have stayed forever.

Seven years later, that night is still sharp in my memory—the sights, the sounds, the way the air in the room felt heavy. Grief has been a long and complicated companion. It has shaped the way I love, the way I show up for others, and the way I measure time. Every milestone since then has carried a quiet ache: weddings, birthdays, ordinary days when I just wish I could call her.

Today, though, is a day where I choose myself. Most days, I show up for others—I choose them before me—but on this day, I choose me. I choose love, and I choose to remember.

I let myself sit with the sadness and the anger, but mostly, I sit with the memories of life before the diagnosis, before her death. For just a moment, I can almost imagine she’ll walk through the door, and these last seven years will have only been a bad dream.

But the reality is she will never walk through the door again. I’ll never hear her laugh fill the house or smell her cooking in the kitchen. We’ll never celebrate another birthday, holiday, or event as a family of five.

It’s the four of us now—my sisters and my dad—but together, we carry her. In everything we do, she is there.

Grief doesn’t go away—it changes shape. Some days it feels like a weight I can carry, other days it still knocks the wind out of me. But it has also taught me how deep love runs, and how important it is to keep speaking her name, sharing her stories, and letting her live on in the ways I love others.

Seven years later, I’m still learning how to live in a world without my mama in it—but I know she’s everywhere in the woman I’ve become.