02/17/2026
Seven months after losing my mom, I had a realization I wasn’t prepared for.
Yesterday my daughter asked me if I kept any of my mom’s clothes.
She lost three grandmothers within a year. She has saved pieces from each of them and wants to make throw pillows from their clothing — something tangible to hold onto.
And in that moment, I realized something that hit me hard.
In the first few weeks after my mom passed, I was exhausted. I had been her sole caregiver. I was emotionally drained. I was angry. I didn’t want one more responsibility. Not one more decision. Not one more thing to manage.
So I moved quickly.
I gave almost everything away — to family, to donations. What was saved was already spoken for. I kept one thing. Her favorite robe. It’s still hanging in the spare bathroom that used to be hers.
That’s it.
And yesterday, standing there talking to my daughter, I felt a wave of regret. I should have waited. I shouldn’t have rushed. I should have given myself space to breathe before dismantling the physical pieces of her life.
I didn’t leave anything for myself to hold onto.
And I didn’t pause to consider what my daughter might one day want or need.
Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like urgency. Sometimes it looks like clearing everything out because the silence feels unbearable. Sometimes it looks like anger disguised as efficiency.
I know I did the best I could with the emotional capacity I had at the time. I truly do. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t moments of wishing I had handled it differently.
What I’m learning — seven months later — is that grief unfolds in layers. The decisions we make in survival mode don’t always account for the version of us that will exist months later.
Maybe the lesson isn’t about the clothes.
Maybe it’s about grace.
Grace for the caregiver who was overwhelmed.
Grace for the daughter who was heartbroken.
Grace for the mother who didn’t yet know what her own daughter might someday need.
And maybe it’s also this: sometimes what we keep isn’t fabric — it’s memory, it’s stories, it’s the way she folded towels, the way she laughed, the way that robe still hangs where she left it.
I’m learning to hold both truths:
I wish I had waited.
And I did the best I could at the time.
If you’re in the middle of clearing out a loved one’s belongings — pause if you can. Give yourself space. Grief makes quick decisions feel necessary.
And if you’ve already made them, like I did, be gentle with yourself.
We are all just navigating loss the best way we know how.
Sherrie Harder Bebell
