til the end.

It’s been about six months since I last visited this site. I just couldn’t bring myself to come here. Five months ago, my mother transitioned from time to eternity. I think it’s because I was working on the site right before she came to visit, and when she got sick, I put everything on hold. Returning here felt like an acknowledgment of what had happened—a reminder that she’s no longer here.

With a heavy but slightly less burdened heart, I’ve found the courage to return.

My mom fought hard. She trusted God with her whole being, believing in her healing every single day. After months of doctor visits and weekly chemo, I still can’t believe she’s gone. The grief has been overwhelming. Even as I type this, tears fill my eyes. Grief is peculiar and intense—it shows up whenever it wants. My emotions have been on a wild rollercoaster, spiraling like an earthquake, avalanching like a snowstorm, but also shining brightly like the sun. It’s a lot.

I’ve shared a few posts on my Substack (you can find them here), but coming back to SafiaPulliam.com has been strange and difficult. Moving forward has felt like a betrayal—a betrayal of her existence. It’s as if living without her means I’m somehow dishonoring her. But I know I can’t stand still or go back. That’s not how life works, and it’s certainly not what my mom would’ve wanted for me.

The hardest part of her passing has been waking up each day to face the reality of her absence. It makes me physically ill. It’s uncomfortable—like my body and mind are detached, leaving me forgetful, confused, and afraid to trust what’s in front of me. I’d give anything to have her call my phone, answer my call, or burst into my room (though maybe not the bursting part, lol). I miss her yelling my name—that was her thing. You really don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

The holidays are upon us, and I’m scared. This was her favorite time of year—Christmas, winter break at the high school, and her birthday. This was her season!

I’ve been trying to mentally prepare for the season, but I honestly don’t know how I’ll feel. When my dad passed in 2001, I was young—resilient, sad, but somewhat unaware. I didn’t truly feel the weight of his absence until I returned to work and came home one night. I looked at the couch where he always rested and saw it empty. I was shattered, crying uncontrollably, unable to move. The reality of his absence hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’ve come to learn that it’s in the small, everyday moments when you feel the loss the most. The routines, patterns, and ways your loved one occupied the world—they’re gone. And it takes your breath away, stronger than any high or low you’ve ever felt.

On my breaks from work is when my mom comes to mind the most. It’s the random moments when I know we’d be talking, laughing, or gossiping. She’d call to say, “Hey, little girl, what are you doing?” Now, those moments are just memories, playing on repeat in my mind. While I know I could call a friend or family member, it’s not the same. They’re not her. I want her—her voice, her presence, her advice, her love.

In those moments, I do my best to sit with my grief. I try not to run or hide from it. I let it wash over me because I know she’s not coming back. I have to get through this. My prayer is simple: God, help me. Amen.

For a long time, I struggled with how my mom showed me love. I resented it, wishing she would love me the way I wanted or needed. After much therapy, I’ve come to understand that my feelings were valid, but two truths can coexist: she loved me deeply, even if it didn’t always align with my expectations. I find myself asking for forgiveness for not fully seeing and accepting the love that was always right in front of me.

I miss her so much. I often say out loud, “I miss you, Ma,” and I hope you’re somewhere beautiful. I love you.

I always knew the day of her passing would come, but I didn’t think it would be this year, or this way. Fuck you cancer!

As her only child, I’ll never regret being by her side during her final journey—holding her hand as she walked toward heaven and took her last breath. Her presence, her energy, her willpower overcame that illness in the end. Her passing meant she was finally healed—free of disease, fully embraced by God’s grace, love, and power. Her life, and mine, forever changed.

I don’t really remember who I was before all of this, and I think that’s part of my resistance to return. But I’ll try. I’ll return when I feel inspired, and I’ll show up for this community because the reason I started SafiaPulliam.com and Find Your Lite was to remind others—and myself—that you can do this, no matter what “this” is.

Now, I have to learn who I am in this world without my mom. She held me first, and as her daughter, I held her last. In that, I know we will continue to hold each other.

Because of that love, I will find my way.
Because of that love, I will continue to find my lite.

I love you, Mom.