My Mom and Grief
For the last three weeks since my sweet, brave, incredible mommy died, I’ve been wrapped in grief — focused entirely on everything she will miss.
Her grandchildren’s college graduations.
Their weddings.
Our family dinners.
Lazy Sunday football games with her curled up on the couch beside us.
All the advice and guidance I still crave — more than anything.
I’ve felt her absence like a weight in the room. Every time something beautiful happens, I instinctively want to run downstairs and tell her.
Because for the last six years, we lived together.
Even when she couldn’t speak, she was still the best advisor, the most loyal confidant, and the gentlest consoler. When Bill suddenly died last year, I felt her heart hurt for me. She didn’t have to say a word. I saw it in her eyes. Her presence alone gave me strength.
And when I shared good news — especially about my kids — she’d smile. I lived for those moments. When I told her about GameDay, the business we were building, I saw that same twinkle in her eyes I’d seen my whole life. That spark. That belief. That fierce pride that fueled me to keep going. She saw me, even in silence. And somehow, she still inspired me to rise.
Grief has a way of drowning us in absence. But slowly, in the quiet, something begins to shift.
Enjoying life together.
Whether at home, in the car, at an event (typically football related) Marnie and her mom experienced a wonderful life.
If you’ve lost someone — especially someone who was part of your everyday — you know that feeling: the reach for the phone, the instinct to share, the weight of them not being there. But maybe, just maybe, they are still there. Just not in the way they once were.
I’m starting to feel my mom in new ways.
She’s in how I mother.
In how I lead.
In how I choose to show up — even when it’s hard.
She’s in my tears, and in my strength.
Forever an example.
Marnie’s mom, Susan Spencer, was ever present in her daughter’s life.
Because here’s what I’m learning:
Tears are not weakness.
They’re a release.
They carry the love that can’t stay trapped inside anymore.
They soften the sharpest edges of grief and make room for something else: memory, clarity, even peace.
If you’re grieving right now — if your person is gone and it hurts to breathe — I want you to know this:
They are still with you.
In your laugh. In your strength. In the way you love.
Their story lives on in how you keep living.
My mom taught me to keep going.
To do the next right thing.
To lead with gratitude.
To love fully, without apology.
And while she may not be here to witness the future, she’s forever a part of it — because she’s part of me.
Always there for each other.
Marnie and her mom celebrating great moments.
If you’ve lost someone who mattered — if you’re aching with everything they’re missing — take comfort in what they left behind. The impact, the memories, the love that doesn’t end.
No, they may not hold your hand anymore — but you carry them in yours.
So yes, the loss is profound.
But the love you shared? The life they lived? The legacy they leave? That is the gift.
They were here for so much. And somehow, even now —
They still are.
