When Love Means Comfort, Not Cure

There are moments in life that shift the way you breathe. Moments when time feels slower, but also more fragile, like you’re holding something sacred and irreplaceable in your hands.

I found myself in one of those moments. My mom, my heart, my first friend, has been undergoing hospice comfort measures.

It’s hard to explain what that really feels like unless you’ve been here, standing in the space where hope takes on a different shape. It’s not about cures or treatment plans anymore. It’s about warmth. Presence. Dignity. And love that speaks even when words fail.

Comfort, in this season, looks like holding her hand a little longer. Making sure she hears the songs she loves. Bringing her favorite scent into the room. Whispering I’m here and meaning it with your whole being.

It’s in the gentle way you tuck a blanket under her chin. The way you memorize the sound of her laugh, even if it’s softer now or maybe non-existant.. The way you notice the light in her eyes when someone she loves walks in.

I think about the woman who prayed over me, protected me, and showed me what love looks like in action. The woman who made sacrifices I didn’t always see at the time. The woman who was my first example of strength, even on days she didn’t feel strong.

And now, I get to give some of that love back to her. I get to be present in ways that matter most. This season isn’t easy, it’s the hardest thing I have ever been through, but it’s real, and it’s ours.

Because love like this doesn’t end. It shifts. It deepens. It weaves itself into the fabric of who you are.

When love means comfort, not cure… you learn that comfort can still be holy. That presence can be medicine. That goodbye is never the whole story.

For my mom, my heart, my first friend when I opened my eyes, I will show up every day with kindness, gentleness, and gratitude for the gift of being yours. This is for You! I Love you so much more than just to the moon and back.