Losing Home

Something no one ever shared with me, at least not directly, is the feeling and realization that comes after you lose your parents. Losing your parents is strange in a way, because on some level, you know it will eventually happen. There’s a small, logical thought tucked away in the back of your mind. You know it exists, but you keep it hidden. Then there’s the other part of you that believes your parents will live forever, that they could never leave you.

Then it actually happens. And that “something” no one talks about dawns on you. It knocks the air right out of your lungs. Well, I’m going to share that “something” with you.

I lost my mom in January of 2022, and exactly one month later, I lost my dad. The time in between, planning my mom’s funeral while my dad was still in the hospital, is a blur. But the feeling I had after they were both gone is still fresh in my mind.

My parents were older, 75 and 85, and by most accounts, they lived long lives. But to me, their daughter, it wasn’t long enough. I didn’t get enough time. My kids didn’t get enough time. My parents were supposed to live forever. They were meant to see my boys grow up and become men, but they didn’t.

Not only did I grieve for myself, a child without her parents, I also grieved for my boys. And that realization no one talks about hit me hard: my “home” was gone. I could never go back home because they were home. They were comfort. They were my home base. When nothing else in the world made sense, whether I was a kid or an adult, I could always go back home, eat some comfort food, and recharge. I could just be a daughter again, not a mom or a wife. I could be taken care of.

And when they died, I felt like an orphan.

I didn’t just grieve my parents; I also grieved myself. I was officially a full-time adult, truly on my own. That realization is probably the deepest and most profound one I’ve ever had. I thought I was an adult before. I’m married and have three beautiful children, but I still had my home base. When that was gone, I truly felt what it meant to be grown. The people who brought me into this world were no longer in it. And that reality is sobering.

The first year was the hardest, though every year brings its own challenges. What hit me hardest was the first time I got really sick. My mom would have come over, made soup, and watched my kids while I rested. Realizing she wasn’t there hit like a ton of bricks. It’s all those “first” moments after you lose a parent that catch you off guard and chip away at your heart a little more each time.

It’s been three years now since I lost my parents. It’s not that it’s easier; I’ve just learned to live with the reality. Like the ocean, grief comes in waves. What has helped me most is my faith. I’ve clung to it like a life jacket. I can’t imagine carrying this grief without it or without the mercy God has shown me. I’ve found purpose and a way to honor my parents through my work and creativity. It doesn’t make the grief disappear, but it helps me channel it into something meaningful, something that might help someone else on their journey.

I’ve started creating a grief journal, which I hope to launch in 2026. I’ve also started a podcast where I share both my grief and my faith journey, along with the stories of others.

I don’t pretend to understand why things happen the way they do. For a long time, I was angry with God for taking both my parents, what felt like all at once. But over time, I realized my anger was really grief and misplaced guilt. I felt responsible for not saving them, as if I even could. For not doing enough or not knowing enough. But what God has taught me is this, is that I did all I could with the knowledge I had. He never expected me to save them or perform miracles, so I shouldn’t expect that of myself either.

If you’re walking through grief, be kind to yourself. Give yourself the same mercy God does. Take it one day at a time.

By Jessica Diaz