Six Months Without You: What Grief Really Feels Like When the World Keeps Moving

It’s been six months since my mother died, and I’ve learned that grief doesn’t move the way people tell you it does. It doesn’t follow a timeline, it doesn’t come in neat stages, and it certainly doesn’t end once you’ve come to terms with the reality of what happened.

I can tell you with complete honesty that even when you’ve done the work deep emotional work, values work, coaching, therapy, self-reflection there is still a surreal quality to walking through the world knowing the person you once picked up the phone and called is no longer here.

You still walk around the world the same way you did before they died. You still go to the grocery store, still work, still laugh, still wipe down your counters, still plan your week, still get dressed, still live your life. You learn how to function again. You move through the days. You begin to feel yourself returning. And then something subtle will shift a memory, a moment, a sound, a thought and you’re reminded that this person, this presence, this anchor in your life is gone.

And that part is still weird. Not devastating, not paralyzing, not like the early days just strange. Quietly heartbreaking. A soft ache beneath everything else.

Six months in, that’s the part I notice the most.

This past weekend, I was flying back from Atlanta after an event my team and I hosted something powerful, something that would’ve lit my mother up. And on that Sunday, I thought about her a lot. It hit me that I would’ve shared every minute of that experience with her. She lived through my stories. Every time something happened in my career, she was the first person I wanted to tell. She knew how much I loved work, how fulfilled I felt when I got to stand in front of people and serve. And even in her darkest chapters, even with all the history, even with all the complexity between us, she always understood that part of me.

She knew her kid had purpose.

And as I sat there thinking about that event, I could hear her voice in my head clear as day cheering me on, telling me how proud she was. She would’ve loved hearing about the travel, the people we helped, the laughter, the breakthroughs, the energy of the room. And I knew, without question, she would’ve been so proud that six months after she died, I was still out there doing what I’m meant to do.

She would’ve known, deeply, that she raised a good son. That even through the chaos of her life and the trauma of her addiction, something good came out of the whole mess. I was the proof.

But on the drive home, that’s when the ache hit me. I really missed her. Not in a dramatic fall-to-your-knees kind of way. Not in a panicked grief spiral. Not in a way that made me feel like I was falling apart. Just… honestly. Cleanly. Like a quiet truth dropped into my chest. A truth I can’t negotiate with anymore: I can’t pick up the phone and call her.

That was the moment that got me. I just wanted to tell her a story. Six months in, that’s what grief looks like. It’s the simple things that hit the hardest. It’s the realization that the person you shared your life with in that way the person who knew your voice, your rhythm, your heart isn’t on the other side of that phone anymore.

A few days after she died, my old acting coach, Ken Eulo, called me out of the blue. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. If you know Ken, you know you can’t have a surface conversation with him. He’s always going to say something that hits you right in the soul, whether you’re ready for it or not.

He asked how I was doing, and I told him the truth that my mother had just passed. He paused. There was this long, reflective silence, and then he said, in that powerful, direct way he always does:

“Stan, I hope you love yourself.”

I didn’t even understand it at first. But he kept going. He said, “Because when you lose your number one cheerleader in this world, you’d better be the one who knows how to love yourself more than she ever did.” And that line hit me like a freight train.

Because that was my mother. For all the dysfunction, all the addiction, all the chaos, all the heartbreak she was still my number one cheerleader. She was the one who celebrated every accomplishment. Every job. Every voice acting role. Every workshop. Every big moment. Every new dream. She bragged about me to strangers. She told everyone how proud she was. She said it so many times that I can still hear it in my head.

But six months later, what I really understand is this: When your number one cheerleader dies, you become the one who has to take over that job. And that’s where the real grief work begins. It’s not in the crying. It’s not in the memories. It’s not even in the sadness. It’s in learning how to hold yourself with the same tenderness you once received from them. To celebrate yourself the way they would’ve. To look at your life and feel proud of what you’re doing even without their voice in the room.

Six months in, this is what I can say with certainty: Grief changes shape.It doesn’t disappear.But it becomes quieter.It becomes cleaner.It becomes wiser. You don’t lose yourself in it anymore. You learn how to carry it. You learn how to live with the reality that you can’t hug them anymore but you can still feel their presence when you need it. You learn how to keep moving, not because you’re trying to outrun the pain, but because you’re finally standing on your own two feet.

And even though you come to terms with it, there will still be moments on the drive home from an event, in the airport, in your kitchen, in the middle of a great day when you wish you could just say one more thing. Tell one more story.Share one more moment.Hear one more “I’m proud of you.” That’s grief.And that’s love.They live side by side now. Six months later, I can tell you this:

I’m healing.I’m grounded.I’m at peace with the truth of what happened.And I miss her not constantly, but honestly.In the way someone misses the sun when it slips behind a cloud.In the way someone misses home while still being grateful for where they are. And most importantly:I love myself in a way I didn’t know how to when she was alive. That’s the real gift she left me. A final lesson disguised inside the silence she left behind.