Dear Mama,

It's me. No, not the awkward 15 year old girl you'd said goodbye to on that last morning before you died. It's the equally awkward 20 year old woman that you've never physically met. I wish you could have. But things had to turn out different than planned. These changes mean that I haven't seen you or heard your voice in 5 years. And that kills me.

Tuesday the 18th marks 5 years since you died. I can't believe it. It feels like it was yesterday that it all happened. 5 years ago, I was a sophomore in high school, and I didn't know who I was and what I was going to do with my life. Well, things change in 5 years. Instead of sitting in a high school classroom being bored to death, I'm in a college setting, where I actually enjoy what I'm studying. Sure, I have to take math...nobody said I had to love or enjoy it. In fact, I'm sitting in a college computer lab typing this out. I love it here, Mama. It's home. If you could see me here, you'd know that I'm very happy with the choices I've made and the family that I've gained here.

There's something for which I must thank you. Thank you for doing anything and everything to make my childhood and life the best you could make it. I know I didn't appreciate it all the time, but I certainly do now: I wish you were still on my back about doing well in school, because I honestly can't handle doing it alone sometimes. But I get through it, just like you did. I'm strong like you.

It hasn't gotten any easier to cope. But here I am, at 20 years old, kicking more butt and taking more names than most. I sure as hell didn't choose this situation, but I sure as hell did choose to be transformed by it. Fr. Andy told me never to let this (you and Dad dying) define me. And I sure as hell took his advice. I am my own person now, and when people tell me that I'm like you, I take it as a compliment, knowing that you make me who I am...but your death hasn't completely obliterated the other parts of my identity. In fact, I've found out more about myself in the past 5 years than I ever have.

You always told me that I should take my performing arts as far as I can. People think dad was the one pushing me the entire time, and he was the one pushing the music; the technical things. But you were the one who pushed me to do it because you knew that it brings me so much joy. You even told me how much you enjoyed watching me onstage because when I was onstage, I would have the most fun. So I took performing arts to the college level. Thanks, Mom. Because of you, I've learned that I don't need to hide myself. I find my sanity in music....as insane as rehearsals can make me. I know you'd be at all my concerts, sitting in the front row, with the biggest smile on your face, because your baby's on that stage and you get to watch. To me, you're sitting there every concert. But it's a cold realization that I won't be able to meet you on the floor after a concert and hug you. It breaks my heart, but every song I sing, I sing for you and only you.

I know you're proud of me, and I'm finally at peace with myself because I know that. When I see you again in Heaven, I am going to give you the biggest hug ever because even though you haven't been around here on earth, you've still been my best friend and I wouldn't trade that for the entire world. Even from above, you're still looking after me. You're still my mother.

I love you, Mama.