Losing a mum, even when it’s gradual and complicated, means losing a part of yourself

Written by Emily Allen

Last night, I had a dream that jolted me awake in a cold sweat. A classic stress dream; I was on a plane falling out of the sky. As I realised I was about to die, my first thought wasn’t fear of dying. Two thoughts hit me at once: I won’t see my kids again and my kids are going to grow up without a mum.

I don’t know if that’s a normal thing to think. But for me, it captured the profound grief I carry, not just about my own mortality, but about my experience of not really having a mum anymore. A mum to lean on. To guide me. To annoy me. To just be there.

My mum wasn’t perfect, she could be incredibly frustrating at times, but she was my mum. And I have so much I still want to ask her.

She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was in my early 20s. Everything shifted. The dynamic flipped from her looking after me, to me looking after her. At first, it was small things; confusion at the supermarket, not being able to follow the storyline to Coronation Street, not understanding sell-by dates. Then it became bigger. She was repeating the same questions over and over. She didn’t’ know what was going on in my life.

Eventually, she didn’t know my name. Didn’t know who I was. I became her carer in a way I never imagined, administering pills to calm her, watching her disappear very very slowly. Me and my sisters took turns in my family to care for her at weekends, to give my dad a break. It was a lot, especially in my 20s.

My story of mother loss is unique, like all of ours are. My mum is technically still alive - she’s unresponsive in bed in a care home, where she has been for years. But I lost her a long time ago. And I carry a complicated tangle of emotions about that. Anger, grief, resentment, and guilt. I don’t like the version of her she became with the Alzheimers. Unravelling that from the mum she once was is incredibly hard.

But I try to remember the good. When I was little, she was a lovely mum. I remember cuddles, laughter, warmth yes, and lots of love. Shouting too, and her nickname for me was “trouble” so I’m sure I drove her up the wall. But my goodness, what I’d give to have her around now. To see her as a grandma. To have her care about me and help me raise my kids.

I have two children, and after my second was born, I hit a low. The jump from one child to two felt enormous. I desperately needed someone to help with my toddler while I cared for a very demanding baby. But we didn’t have that support. And it felt like all my friends did. (I know now that was probably just my perception at the time, but it was real to me.)

That isolation made everything harder. I didn’t enjoy my second maternity leave. But having children isn’t just about babies and mat leave, it’s about the relationship you get to have with your kids. And over time, my husband and I have built a life that works for just the four of us. We’re shaping our careers and routines around that.

Still, not having a mum isn't just about missing practical help. It’s about missing emotional support. It’s about not having that one person who knows you inside out, who loves you unconditionally. A friend said recently how she didn’t know what she’d do without her mum popping round to cook a couple of shepherd’s pies, to fill the freezer, to have the kids so she could take a bath. And I thought… imagine. Imagine my mum doing that for me.

And yet, it’s okay. It’s sad, yes. But there’s something beautiful in it the loss which has made me who I am. Because it’s made me pour everything into my relationship with my own children.

Sometimes I worry I’m too soft on them because I don’t want them to hurt. But I also know that being a parent means showing up, setting boundaries, and being their anchor. What I miss, I want to give to them. I want them to always feel safe, loved, and secure.

Losing a mum, even when it’s gradual and complicated, means losing a part of yourself. That one person who’s known you since before you were even born. There’s no one else who replaces that. And the ache of that absence is always with me.

But here’s the silver lining: when I woke up from that horrible dream, all I wanted to do was run to my kids. My gorgeous 1 and 3 year old kids. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight. I cuddled them so tightly, wanting them to feel how much I love them.

Loss has a way of sharpening your appreciation. It reminds me that the small moments - messy, loud, imperfect - are what really matter. I don’t care so much about being the "perfect" parent anymore. I care that my kids feel loved beyond measure. That they know there is nothing they could ever do to make me stop loving them and I will be there for them as long as I can.

And if I can give them that? Then I’m doing okay.