Uncommon Feelings

Throughout my life, it has been rare for me to lose the ability to define a feeling or a state—especially when it happens inside my own body. I’ve always known how to name sensations: every current of energy, every flutter beneath my chest. I could welcome them, let them stay for a moment, then turn them into understanding.

But one day, everything shifted. Not every emotion is meant to be decoded instantly. Some require time, space, even silence. Some demand to be felt before they can be understood.

A day before she passed, we had a long video call — longer than usual. It felt as though time stretched for us. She wasn’t saying anything extraordinary; it was just her being herself. But something in my body recognized it. A quiet intuition, a knowing I couldn’t explain.

As if a part of me whispered,
“Listen. This may be the last time her voice reaches you.”

I didn’t want to believe it, but something in me stayed present, memorizing every tone, every pause. And now, looking back, I know: that call wasn’t ordinary. It was a farewell wrapped in love.

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That day was July 29th, 2023.

We were getting ready to go somewhere when my little brother called. All I heard was, “Kak…” wrapped in trembled breath. The rest became a blur. Words existed, but my mind refused to store them.

The message was simple: my mother had died.

In that moment, I was undone.
Every emotion rose at once — not in harmony, but chaos.
Like an orchestra without a conductor. Loud. Overwhelming. Unbearable.
I didn’t know what I was feeling. I only knew it swallowed me whole.

Shock, disbelief, confusion, all tangled.

“Wasn’t she just alive?”
“Couldn’t she wake up?”
“Maybe she’s only unconscious.”

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But eventually, I saw her — pale yet still beautiful, a faint smile resting on her lips. I bathed her, and memory flickered: she once bathed me laughing, and now I bathed her crying.

My heart whispered an impossible hope:
Maybe when I finish, she’ll wake up.

She didn’t.

She was buried. And still, some part of me wondered if she would walk back home, knock on the door, and say she had only been asleep.

But she never did.
Even now, as I write this, she has not returned.

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I cry without announcement. In the middle of laughter, in ordinary scenes that are supposed to be harmless. On the back of a motorbike, tucked inside my helmet and mask, watching the world pass by. When my daughter plays outside with my husband, whole and alive. It feels as if sadness occupies every hour of my day, until my tears run dry. Still, none of it has the power to undo the absence she left behind.

All the regrets became anger. Anger at people. At choices. At fate. At God.

"Why didn’t anyone notice her pain sooner?"
"Why did everyone rely on her?"
"Why was she taken so young?"

I became short-tempered, something foreign in me. Even small things ignited irritation.

Some days, the longing blurs its own edges. It disguises itself as a wish to follow her, just to hold her once more, to finish conversations the world interrupted too soon. In those moments, life feels fragile, almost negotiable. Yet love pulls me back, reminding me of the lives entrusted to my care. I set the thought aside, not because it disappears, but because staying is the promise I keep, even on days when I feel unbearably alone.

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If she had lived longer, she would have softened in old age, finally allowing herself to rest after a life spent being strong for everyone. But “lived longer” was nothing more than a tender dream that never belonged to reality. She left long before life ever had the chance to call her old.

I didn’t know much about her youth — only pieces:
She loved romance novels.
She wanted to become an environmental engineer.
She dreamed of having a sewing and catering business.

In her younger years she loved romance novels, a pleasure she once held close. I enjoy reading too, though in different genres, and it always felt like a small detail we happened to share. It still crosses my mind how, after she married, her books disappeared, faded into the busyness of life, as if an early chapter of hers had simply slipped away. Sometimes I think those missing books were pieces of her that she never got the chance to return to.

She once dreamed of becoming an environmental engineer—a path life never allowed her to walk. I still remember a time when I was accepted into a state university’s engineering program but didn’t take it for various reasons; perhaps she felt a quiet disappointment, especially at my uncertainty in making big decisions. That dream was never granted to her, yet I hope she knew that I, too, grew up loving nature and the environment in my own way.

But there was one thing she almost held onto. Near the end of her life, she began sewing again. My father supported her: buying tools, encouraging her forgotten joy. A few days before she passed, she proudly sent a message saying her sewing requests were increasing, and she made a fabric wall decor with my daughter’s name. If she were here, I can imagine the light in her eyes. Stitching, creating, dreaming again.

If she hadn’t married my father and had me, maybe she would have lived happier.

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She had simple (last?) wishes: Chicken Katsu from Solaria and a trip to Yogyakarta.

I sent the food days before she passed, not knowing it was her last favorite meal. If I had known, I would have visited. I would have fed her myself. Nothing I was busy with was more important than her.

So after she died, I went to Yogyakarta — her dream destination.

I watched the Ramayana ballet at Prambanan Temple. There was a character named Shinta, like my mother's name. All evening, her name echoed through the air, woven into chants, movements, and stories. I sat there in awe, taking in the beauty of the temple, the grace of the dancers, the patience of the night—and somehow, everything led back to her. In that moment, beauty was no longer abstract. It had a face, a name, a memory. It looked like her: Shinta Dewi.

I cried at the Parangtritis beach whispering, “Ma, I’m here. I hope you're happy.”

Maybe the wind carried it. Maybe she heard. Maybe that was enough.

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Not long before she died, she told someone she was proud of me. She believed I would be a good teacher and a capable mother. Now I am both, perhaps? Partly because of her words. Partly because staying busy keeps these uncommon feelings from drowning me.

And her final message to anyone was about my brother’s college being settled. It felt as if she held on just long enough to make sure he was ready for his next chapter, and only then allowed herself to rest. Even though she could not walk beside him into that new phase, it felt like her final act of love was ensuring he wouldn’t begin it alone.

That was my mother—someone who often appeared cold and distant in front of her children, as if affection was something she had to ration carefully. Yet outside our home, she spoke of us with pride.

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One night, she visited my dream. Usually quiet, brief, but this time she stayed longer.

She gave me a gift and laughed softly:
“Mama’s still here. Mama can see you, but you can’t see Mama. Imagine if you could. Scary, right? Hehehe. Okay, Mama’s going.”

The scene shifted: a married couple watching a little girl and a little boy run around a dining table. I wondered, was that my future? Was she showing me something ahead? A child who isn’t here yet?

There was music, narration, softness — almost cinematic.
The message was:

“You don’t have to rush your healing. Just begin allowing peace into your heart.”

And strangely, around that time, something happened at home. Plants I had nearly given up on suddenly bloomed. Leaves that were dull became vibrant. Branches that were tired began sprouting green again.

The next morning, while folding clothes, I felt someone beside me — warm, gentle. Her dream words suddenly felt truthful:

She was there. She still is.

A part of me wanted to believe she had become something else — something gentle, something living, something growing.

Like the lyrics of Gala Bunga Matahari:

“Mungkinkah kau mampir hari ini?
Bila tidak mirip kau,
jadilah bunga matahari.”

And maybe, in ways only the heart understands, she did.

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I still encounter her in everyday life. In visits to her grave, where I bring bright flowers and rose water, as if color and fragrance could briefly bridge the distance. I have always loved flowers. Yet now, that love has deepened. They remind me of my mother’s new home, and of the final home awaiting us all. What once felt merely beautiful now carries remembrance and reverence.

I also let her live on within me, just as they once asked of me.

“Allah loves her more than we ever could. Instead of drowning in sadness, keep her kindness alive through you. Be strong, be patient — the way she once was.”

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Losing her changed me.

I was reborn twice:
once when I became a mother,
and once when my mother died.

Motherhood taught me presence. Loss taught me surrender.

Loving my daughter made me gentler with myself. Losing my mother taught me to forgive my past and accept whatever Allah has written ahead.

This journey isn’t simple or smooth — but with Allah’s guidance, I walk it one gentle step at a time.

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Recently, I read a book titled Welcoming Feelings. I don’t remember every sentence clearly, but I remember the essence:

That "uncommon feelings" can be a reminder of how wide our capacity to love truly is.

The thought I found in that book shifted my perspective. It helped me see that these uncommon feelings weren’t here to frighten me. They were simply love taking a different form.

And with that understanding, I can finally name it.
However complex, layered, and unsteady it once felt, it all returns to one truth: this is grief.

Not everything is healed —
not everything needs to be.

But now, I can sit with these uncommon feelings (grief) without fearing them.

While I slowly reconcile with my grief, I pray that someday Allah reunites us in a place far more beautiful than this world could ever offer. Aamiin.

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I am writing this on December 22, 2025, a day that coincides with Mother’s Day. I have nothing tangible to offer you, except this piece of writing, in which sincerity and love pour out in my own quiet way. I hope there is an angel, or whatever entity exists beyond this realm, who will whisper to you that your name remains eternal in many hearts.

I do not like to frame you as a strong mother, though strength was the language your life spoke. May you now be given ease—to rest peacefully. I surrender this hope to Allah, who knows what is truly best for you, and for every heart you left behind.

Everything here is holding up just fine. I hope it is the same where you are.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama Ita!