A few months ago, I stumbled across an old recording of my mom. She’s been gone nearly 32 years now. I was ten days shy of fifteen when she died.
The voice on the recording didn’t sound like the voice I remember in my head, but that didn’t surprise me. Sound doesn’t age well in memory. Still, hearing her again knocked the wind out of me. You’d think I’d remember exactly what she said, but I don’t. I was hanging on every word, but it wasn’t what she said that mattered. It was the sound of her. Like brushing up against my childhood. I was back on the edge of her bed, massaging her bald head in the last days before cancer took her from us.
She laughed a lot, even when things were hard — especially when things were hard. There were tears, too. And fear. But she met most days with a kind of stubbornness and light that made people feel like maybe things would be okay even when they weren’t.
She made friends easily. Gave more than she had. Got frustrated fast, too, but I’ve always given chronic pain the blame for that. As a kid, I didn’t know how to make sense of it all. I didn’t have words to describe my mom. I just knew she filled every room she entered with life and light. She was the person who made everything feel safer… until she wasn’t there to do it anymore.
When she died, my world got quieter. I got louder to compensate. As if turning up the volume on myself might bring some of her sound back.
At some point — I don’t remember when — a thought struck me that’s been with me ever since: Would she be proud of me for this?
It’s not about chasing approval. Or maybe it is. Either way, that question, an echo of my mother, has become one of the clearest internal compasses I have. I don’t think she expected perfection, but I know she wanted me to live a life defined by decency, kindness, and purpose.
That echo shows up in unexpected ways.
My mom was a hugger. I’ve told myself my kids don’t really want that from me — not like they do from their mom, who expects it. I’m more of a sit-and-listen dad. I tell them I love them. I try not to downplay what they’re going through, even when it feels small against my own lived experience. I rarely raise my voice, but when I do, I circle back and own it. And I still try to make people laugh in hard moments because she did, and it helped.
She also spoke her mind. I think deep down, she knew her time was limited, and she didn’t see much point in leaving things unsaid. That’s one echo I haven’t followed as well. I’ve spent most of my life softening my words — being polite, agreeable, careful not to rock the boat. I’ve told myself it’s about keeping the peace, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s something else too. Maybe it’s caution. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s a habit I picked up without knowing it, and one I’m just now learning to put back down.
And then there’s the buzz. That low-level hum of guilt that creeps in anytime I stop moving. I spent the better part of two and a half decades overcommitting; believing that my worth was tied to output. The late nights. The skipped vacations. The laptop glowing in the corner while my kids played on the floor. I told myself it was for them. For us. For our future.
Some of that was, and is, true. Some of it was a story I needed to believe to avoid confronting what I didn’t know how to stop.
Even now, with more balance in my schedule and a clearer sense of what matters, that hum is still there. I can be sitting next to my wife, watching a Hallmark movie, and my brain will whisper, you should be doing more.
I’m learning not to answer back.
There are good echoes too — ones I hope will reverberate through the walls of our home long after I’m gone. Every time I say “love you” to my wife or kids. Every time I help a neighbor and don’t expect anything in return. Every time I take a deep breath before reacting, because I’ve learned that grace is more useful than judgment.
Those things don’t happen by accident. They’re the residue of a hundred thousand moments — some joyful, some brutal, most completely ordinary and mundane. Habits that grew into character. Words I didn’t realize I’d absorbed until I heard myself saying them out loud.
Echoes are funny that way. We don’t always know we’re carrying them. We don’t always mean to pass them on. But we do.
Lately, I’ve been paying closer attention to the kind of echoes I want to leave.
Not just the legacy stuff: the big-picture, obituary-worthy milestones. I mean the little things. The way I show up when someone’s struggling. The tone I use when I’m tired. The stories I tell. The way I treat people when no one’s watching.
I think about my mom a lot. I’m 7 years older now than she lived to be. I wonder what kind of echoes she hoped to leave behind but couldn’t. I wonder if she knew how deeply the ones she did leave would stick. I wonder what mine will sound like someday.
I hope they include the laughter of bedtime stories. The courage to say, “I was wrong.” The trust that love can and must outlast frustration. I hope my kids hear echoes that remind them they were loved, deeply, in every season of their lives, even the hard ones.
Of course, not every echo is kind or useful. Some I’m still learning to name. Some I’m only just beginning to hear.
I’m watching more closely now. Listening more carefully. Trying to notice which echoes belong in the room and which ones don’t.
And that is enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment