Zara
New member
- Joined
- Feb 20, 2026
- Messages
- 22
I lost my mom two years ago. Cancer. I've been to therapy, I've talked about it, I've done all the "right" things. But I still couldn't read or watch anything about terminal illness without completely falling apart. Until Tatiana Schlossberg's essay. And I don't fully understand why, but it helped. 
Maybe it's because she's so honest about the things my mom never said. My mom protected me too—hid her pain, pretended everything was fine, tried to make it easier for me. Schlossberg writes about that: "My parents and my brother and sister, too, have been raising my children and sitting in my various hospital rooms almost every day for the last year and a half. They have held my hand unflinchingly while I have suffered, trying not to show their pain and sadness in order to protect me from it" .
I never knew my mom was doing that until after she was gone. Reading Schlossberg name it made me feel like someone finally understood.
There's also this part about her children that wrecked me: "My first thought was that my kids, whose faces live permanently on the inside of my eyelids, would not remember me" . My mom worried about that too, I think. I was older when she died—I remember her. But I think about her last months constantly, wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling, whether she was scared. Schlossberg gives words to those feelings, and somehow that makes them less lonely.
The part about time hit me hardest: "I have started to think about time differently, how it expands and contracts depending on who's in the room. When my kids are here, time moves so fast—I'm always aware of the minutes slipping away. When I'm alone, time moves so slow—I'm always aware of the minutes stretching ahead of me" .
I remember sitting with my mom in her last weeks, watching time both race and crawl. Wanting more minutes while also wanting her suffering to end. That paradox is impossible to explain unless you've lived it. Schlossberg explains it.
And then there's the ending. She writes about her husband, her kids, her family. About love persisting even through death. About trying to remember everything even though she won't be there to remember. And somehow, reading it, I felt less alone in my own grief. Like someone else understood. Like my mom might have felt some of these same things.
Schlossberg died on December 30, 2025 . She was 35. Her kids are 3 and 1. They'll grow up without her, but they'll have this essay. They'll know how much she loved them. They'll know she fought to stay with them as long as she could.
I don't know why this essay helped when nothing else did. Maybe because it's not about grief from the outside—it's about dying from the inside. It's the perspective I never got from my mom. And reading it, I felt closer to her somehow.
If you've lost someone, be careful with this essay. It might hit hard. But it might also help.
P.S. Thank you, Tatiana, for writing this. For being honest. For leaving this behind. Your kids will read it someday and know exactly who their mother was.
Maybe it's because she's so honest about the things my mom never said. My mom protected me too—hid her pain, pretended everything was fine, tried to make it easier for me. Schlossberg writes about that: "My parents and my brother and sister, too, have been raising my children and sitting in my various hospital rooms almost every day for the last year and a half. They have held my hand unflinchingly while I have suffered, trying not to show their pain and sadness in order to protect me from it" .
I never knew my mom was doing that until after she was gone. Reading Schlossberg name it made me feel like someone finally understood.
There's also this part about her children that wrecked me: "My first thought was that my kids, whose faces live permanently on the inside of my eyelids, would not remember me" . My mom worried about that too, I think. I was older when she died—I remember her. But I think about her last months constantly, wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling, whether she was scared. Schlossberg gives words to those feelings, and somehow that makes them less lonely.
The part about time hit me hardest: "I have started to think about time differently, how it expands and contracts depending on who's in the room. When my kids are here, time moves so fast—I'm always aware of the minutes slipping away. When I'm alone, time moves so slow—I'm always aware of the minutes stretching ahead of me" .
I remember sitting with my mom in her last weeks, watching time both race and crawl. Wanting more minutes while also wanting her suffering to end. That paradox is impossible to explain unless you've lived it. Schlossberg explains it.
And then there's the ending. She writes about her husband, her kids, her family. About love persisting even through death. About trying to remember everything even though she won't be there to remember. And somehow, reading it, I felt less alone in my own grief. Like someone else understood. Like my mom might have felt some of these same things.
Schlossberg died on December 30, 2025 . She was 35. Her kids are 3 and 1. They'll grow up without her, but they'll have this essay. They'll know how much she loved them. They'll know she fought to stay with them as long as she could.
I don't know why this essay helped when nothing else did. Maybe because it's not about grief from the outside—it's about dying from the inside. It's the perspective I never got from my mom. And reading it, I felt closer to her somehow.
If you've lost someone, be careful with this essay. It might hit hard. But it might also help.
P.S. Thank you, Tatiana, for writing this. For being honest. For leaving this behind. Your kids will read it someday and know exactly who their mother was.
