Reflecting on a profound saying about living life with the end in mind, I've come to understand its gravity through personal experience.

Growing up, my relationship with my mother was distant, characterized more by essentials than emotional bonds. She provided necessities - food, clothing, and a safe environment - but our interactions lacked the warm nuances of storytelling, playful games, or academic guidance. Our home thrived on care but not closeness.

Our conversations rarely ventured into her childhood or growing up. Fragments of her life consisted of rural childhood stories, having an elderly father when she was born, and the peculiar fact that she was already a great aunt during her youth. Our relationship felt like a jigsaw puzzle, with most of its pieces missing.

It wasn't until her health deteriorated from a rare autoimmune disease affecting her heart and lungs that we started to spend a little more time together. My husband and I decided we would make sure she had what she needed and the proper care. Spending the last three weeks of her life in the hospital, I witnessed rare moments of vulnerability. It was then that she recounted the humorous tale of my birth, when my dad, in his endearing clumsiness, brought the wrong suitcase, filled with other bags and none of our essentials. Through her weakened state, she shared more of her life's stories that I had never heard.

What struck me the most in these last weeks was the solitude surrounding her final days and moments. She only had one friend reach out, or visit her in the hospital. My mother was always considered a loner, but the weight of her isolation only hit me then. As her time got shorter and we moved into hospice care at the hospital, we knew she would only have a few hours left. I offered to contact others for final goodbyes. But she wished for solitude, just her and me. Our conversation gravitated to my children, and she took solace in a photo of them. Her pride was evident, and her final blessing was a whisper of love and a gentle commendation. My mother's parting words, "God bless you, Bren. Tell the kids I love them," will forever be part of me.

My mother's life was a testament to hard work and trying to find her way. Yet, my tears flowed for the loss of a deeper relationship that we never had. In this emotional moment, I found gratitude, thanking her silently for an invaluable lesson.

Her life, unknowingly, taught me about intentionality and mindfulness. It wasn't just about living with the end in mind; it was about every single moment leading to that end. It's in the conscious choices we make about our relationships, the nurturing of bonds, the weaving of emotional safety nets with friends and family. It's about creating a tapestry of memories filled with adventure, love, and heartfelt moments.

Now, I ponder deeply on the legacy I wish to leave behind. How do I want to be remembered? What relationships do I cherish and want to cultivate? The lesson my mother imparted wasn't her hard work but her inadvertent illustration of mindfulness in how we choose to live. Every day is a step towards the legacy we leave behind, a silent testament to the life we've lived. Hence, the most profound lesson I learned was the importance of intentionality in each moment, creating a life rich with connections and memories, not just for the end but for every step of the journey.

Thank you, Mom.