A Month Without My Mom – Making the Most of the Time We Have

Today, my mom boarded a plane and headed to Culebra – a small, fishing island off the coast of Puerto Rico where the beaches look unreal, the days move slowly, and the warm sunshine is in full supply.

What began as a simple week-long vacation with her partner has blossomed into an annual month-long rest retreat. Thirty days dedicated to being together, reading under palm trees, playing puzzle games, making friends with locals, and soaking in more sunshine than she gets the entire rest of the year combined.

And I love this for her. I really do.

After a lifetime of financial scarcity – and 40 years married to my dad, who was basically allergic to the sun – watching my mom finally get to enjoy this type of experience fills me with so much warmth I could cry.

And to be honest, as I’m typing this… I am tearing up.

Because here’s the catch: Culebra doesn’t have much in the way of cell service. Which means for the next month, my mom and I won’t talk on the phone or text.

No morning check-ins. No midday pep talks. No “I love you so much, Johnamarky!!!” texts – complete with every heart emoji available on her phone.

And for this very proud momma’s boy who talks with her a few times every week, it's a tough month.

But if I look a little deeper, this month apart actually sparks a truth most of us avoid as much as we can: our time with the people we love is limited. And we rarely know how limited ... until it’s gone.

The Moments That Changed Everything

When I was in high school, my mom had a severe reaction to a new medication, and her heart stopped.

Not a brief moment either – for well over two minutes, the EMTs in our small town worked to get it beating again.

She spent days in the ICU while doctors tried to figure out what went wrong. I still remember the deep bruising on her arms from all the tests, the IVs, the bloodwork.

I also vividly remember the fear.

And then, two years ago, she texted me from the emergency room after feeling short of breath for several days. As it turns out, she had a large blood clot in her lung. The residing doctor told her if she had waited even a few more hours, she might not have survived.

I don’t share these stories to air out her medical history though – I share them to explain something that lives in the background of my life:

I know what it feels like to almost lose my mom. Twice.

And I know what it feels like to lose loved ones without warning.

In July 2014, we lost my dad to cancer – after being told we'd have 3-6 months, he was gone in just 3.5 weeks. In October 2023, we lost my little brother in an instant – taken by the overwhelm of a world that felt too cruel and inhumane for his sensitive heart.

I have come to realize that grief changes your relationship to time – ripping you from the safety of our perceived comfort and complacency. It changes how you see people. It changes how you love them.

It teaches you what matters – and the importance of savoring it.

What My Mom’s Trip Teaches Me Every Year

Every December that my mom heads to Culebra, I feel two things at once:

• Joy that she is living her dream.

• Heartache that I won’t hear her voice for a month.

But the older I get, the more I see the truth underneath that ache: Our time with each other is limited ... and is ours to make the most of.

So when we do have time, we get to decide how fully we show up.

Every visit becomes an opportunity.

Every phone call becomes a blessing.

Every text – even the ones with a few too many emojis – becomes a special, beautiful moment.

Over the years, I have learned to know the sound of my mom’s voice before she says a word. I can tell what kind of day she’s having by her tone, her breath, the sinus congestion she gets when rain is on its way. I know when she needs comfort, distraction, encouragement, or simply someone to sit in the quiet with her. I know when she just needs to hear that she's a really great mom.

That kind of knowing is a gift. And gifts like that deserve to be treasured.

So yes – starting tomorrow, I’ll go an entire month without talking to my mom. But you’d better believe I soaked in every moment leading up to her trip. Every call. Every laugh. Every “I love you, Johnamarky” that never gets old, no matter how old I get.

And you’d also better believe I’m already counting down the days until I hear her voice again.

(For anyone wondering, it’s 32. 🥺)

Making the Most of the Time We Have

As we step fully into the final month of the year – packed full of holiday demands, pressures, and family time – I hope this can serve as a gentle reminder. A personal encouragement.

We never know how much time we have with the people we love, but we always have the choice to make the most of the time we get.

So here’s what I hope you take from this: call the person you’ve been meaning to call. Send the text you’ve been putting off. Hold the hug a little longer. Ask the question that leads to a real conversation. Let small annoyances go. Say “I love you” – complete with emojis – even if it feels cheesy.

Make the memories that feel like warmth, the moments that matter long after they pass.

Because one day, these ordinary moments will be the ones we will cherish the most.

Final Reflection

I don’t know how many more years my mom will get to take her December trip to Culebra (hopefully at least a dozen). I don’t know how many more years I’ll get to hear her voice, feel her warm hugs, or receive her signature emoji-filled “I love you” texts.

None of us know these things.

But here’s what I do know: I will keep choosing to love her loudly, intentionally, and wholeheartedly for as long as I’m lucky enough to have her.

Our time is never promised, but presence is always possible. So the email can wait, your boss will survive another 5-minutes, and the game can absolutely be paused and rewatched.

Because in the end, it’s love – when we choose to make room for it – that turns the smallest moments into the ones we remember most.