When my mom told me to stop trying to bury her, I didn’t immediately understand what she meant. She wasn’t talking about death, though that’s what it sounded like at first. She was speaking about the weight I carried—the constant attempts to prepare for a future without her, instead of living with her fully in the present.
It’s a habit that many of us develop as we grow older, especially when we see our parents aging. We try to anticipate loss as a way of protecting ourselves. We pull back emotionally, brace for the impact, and unknowingly rob ourselves of the moments that still remain.
The Quiet Preparation for Loss
For as long as I can remember, my mom has been my foundation. She’s the one who taught me to face hard days, the one who said, “It’s okay if you stumble, but keep walking.” And yet, in recent years, I found myself quietly preparing for the day she wouldn’t be here anymore.
It started in small ways: avoiding certain conversations, glossing over signs of aging, and downplaying her occasional aches and pains. I tried to be the strong one, never showing fear or concern because I thought it would help. But my silence spoke volumes. My careful avoidance of her vulnerability wasn’t strength—it was a refusal to engage with the reality that life is fleeting.
The Day She Called Me Out
One day, as we were sitting in her living room, I asked her a question that felt loaded with hidden worry:
“Do you need me to take care of anything for you?”
She smiled in that knowing way that moms do and replied, “You don’t need to bury me yet. I’m still here.”
I froze for a second, not quite knowing how to respond. My mom had always been perceptive, but this felt like she was peering straight into my soul. I opened my mouth to deny it, to say I didn’t know what she meant, but she cut me off gently.
“You’re so busy worrying about the future that you’re missing today,” she said softly. “I know you’re scared, but don’t you see what’s happening? You’re trying to protect yourself from losing me, but in doing that, you’re already starting to let me go.”
Learning to Live in the Present
Her words hit me like a wave of cold water. I realized that I had been carrying my fear like a shield, distancing myself so I wouldn’t feel the pain of inevitable loss. But what my mom taught me in that moment was that love doesn’t work that way. You can’t protect yourself from hurt by withdrawing; you only end up losing the joy that’s still left to share.
From that day forward, I decided to stop trying to “bury” her, to stop tiptoeing around the difficult truths of aging. Instead, I chose to be present—to ask questions, to hear her stories (even the ones I’d heard a thousand times), and to laugh with her without holding back.
We made a pact to face life together, fully. I asked her what she wanted to do with her time, and her answers surprised me. She wanted to visit old friends, learn how to use new technology, and spend time with her grandkids without feeling like she was “in the way.”
So that’s exactly what we did. We made more phone calls, took spontaneous road trips, and spent lazy afternoons drinking tea and watching her favorite shows.
What It Means to Stop “Burying” Someone
When someone we love starts to age—or when we sense that time with them is finite—it’s natural to feel a sense of panic. But my mom taught me that the best way to honor the people we love is not to brace for their absence but to celebrate their presence.
Stopping the instinct to “bury” someone means:
Being present: Show up in their lives with your full attention and heart.
Having honest conversations: Don’t shy away from talking about life, dreams, or even fears.
Enjoying the little things: Whether it’s a walk in the park or an ordinary dinner, these moments often become the most precious memories.
Letting go of control: Life is unpredictable. You can’t stop time, but you can make the most of the time you have.
Conclusion
I learned that the act of “trying to bury” someone isn’t about them; it’s about us. It’s about our fear of loss, our discomfort with mortality, and our need to feel in control. But as my mom showed me, the only way to truly love someone is to be fully present with them—today, tomorrow, and for as long as we’re given.
Now, when I look at my mom, I don’t see someone I’m afraid to lose. I see someone I’m lucky to love. She reminds me every day that life is measured in moments, not in years, and that the best way to honor her is to live fully alongside her.
So, to anyone who finds themselves bracing for a future they can’t control: stop trying to “bury” the people you love. They’re still here. And so are you.
