Grow with their Flow

I think of her often.

I was heavily pregnant with my first child when I met her. She had two sons—8 and 5 years old—the same ages my children are now. She had only recently been diagnosed, and she was admitted for palliative symptom management. Her case notes revealed what her words did not—she was still in denial about the severity of her condition, holding onto hope that life wouldn’t slip away so soon.

As an occupational therapist on the palliative team, my role was to help patients find meaning in the time they had left. When I asked her about what was most important to her, she didn’t hesitate. She had been a stay-at-home mother for years, and it was the best decision she had ever made. Her voice softened as she spoke about it, as though she could transport herself back to the days of chubby hands reaching for hers, of laughter echoing through their home, of being needed in a way that only a mother is. She told me to cherish my pregnancy, to soak in every moment of early motherhood. Her words held the weight of someone who knew, in the deepest sense, that time is fleeting.

At that time, I loved my job. I had exciting opportunities ahead of me, and I wanted to find a balance between my career and my family. But her words planted a seed—one that made me wonder if I would regret not choosing to stay home. Little did I know that life would lead me down that exact path.

During our session, I gently suggested that she consider writing letters to her children. In palliative care, we often explore ways for patients to leave a legacy—something tangible, something meaningful. She said she would think about it, but I don’t know if she ever did. I wonder if she had the time, the strength, or the readiness to put her words onto paper.

Legacy. I think about it often, now that I am a mother myself. Tomorrow is never guaranteed. If I were to leave tomorrow, the earth would carry on, indifferent to my absence. But in the quiet spaces of my children’s hearts, what would remain? Would they remember the warmth of my presence, the cadence of my laughter, the comfort of my words? Would they carry with them my dreams for them, my hopes woven into the everyday moments we shared? How can I ensure that, when they stand at life’s crossroads, they will still feel my guidance, hear my voice in the echoes of their thoughts? Or would there be an emptiness where my presence should have been, a silence where my love once lived?

And yet, for so much of my life, I have left things unsaid. Maybe out of fear—fear of being judged, fear of not finding the right words, fear of revealing too much of myself. I’ve often felt like I see the world through a slightly different lens, never quite in step with those around me, and so I’ve kept my thoughts carefully tucked away. But what if those very thoughts, those unspoken words, are the things that matter?

Maybe it’s time to be more open, to be more vulnerable. Maybe in sharing my thoughts, I can offer something lasting—not just for my children, but for anyone who might find solace in them.

Maybe, in the end, the legacy we leave is not in the grand gestures, but in the small moments of truth we choose to share. The world will take from my words what it will—some may pass them by, others may find something they need in them.

And it’s okay.

If this moved you, This Morning’s Conversation — When Your Neurodivergent Child Asks About Death is a more recent moment where mortality found its way back into my kitchen.