One week ago today, I lost my mom.
Grief is a strange thing. It creeps in quietly and then crashes down in waves. As I sit here today, reflecting on the person she was and the mark she left on my life, I keep coming back to one particular truth: my love of reading came from her.
Growing up, I can’t remember a time when my mom didn’t have a book in her hand. From Harlequin Romances to thrillers by John Sandford, she always had a story on the go. And yes, those Harlequins were incredibly popular in our neighborhood. My mom read them just as fast as she could check them out from the library. Later in life, she turned to mystery and crime, and she especially enjoyed books by Sandford, a relatively local author born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She loved discovering writers with Midwest roots and supporting those who felt close to home.
Growing Up in the Library
Before she became a nurse in her mid-40s, and when I was quite young, my mom worked at the Savage Library in Savage, Minnesota. She was a librarian when I was little, and every once in a while, I’d get to go to work with her. While she shelved books or helped library goers, I’d settle into the children’s section with a stack of stories and read for hours. The Boxcar Children was my go-to. There was just something about that old boxcar and the siblings fending for themselves that captured my imagination completely. And of course, there was Nancy Drew, the original girl detective. I couldn’t get enough of her adventures.
Looking back now, it’s clear that those afternoons planted the seed for who I’d become. I’m an author today. A bookstagrammer. A person who walks into a bookstore (and yes, a library from time to time) with excitement, leaving with a bag full of stories and the promise of escape, comfort, and sometimes even clarity. That habit? That love? It came from my mom.
Even in her later years, when her health began to decline, reading was still one of her favorite pastimes. She might not have read as voraciously as she once did, but the joy never left her. Her weekly trips to the library were a ritual (and that’s to say she only went to the library once a week… in reality, it might have been more). I know she’d come home with one of her quilted bags packed full. She was always happy to spend a quiet afternoon with a good story.
My Identity as a Reader and Writer Comes from My Mom
Losing someone has a way of making you take stock of the pieces of them that live on in you. And in these agonizing and painful days after her passing, I’m realizing just how much my identity as a reader, and now as a writer, is tied to her.
There were periods in my life when I didn’t read much. Grief, overwhelm, and all the tough moments that life throws at you can pull you away from the things that once brought joy. But in the last year, I found my way back to reading in a big way. These days, I often read 12 to 18 books a month. And now, with this fresh wave of grief, I suspect I’ll see books differently than I did even a few weeks ago. They’re not just stories. They’re a connection to memory, to comfort, to the people who helped shape the way we see the world. They’re my connection to my mom.
Books were how my mom relaxed, how she escaped, how she filled her time when she wasn’t quilting or winning at the casino. And now, they’re how I’ll remember her. Every time I crack open a new novel or get lost in a familiar series, I’ll be reminded of the woman who taught me, without even trying, that books are magic. Those stories matter. That reading is a lifelong love worth nurturing.
I miss her deeply. But I’m grateful for the pages she passed down to me.