It was only after my mom died that I truly learned how to have compassion for her — and myself

• Tracey Yokas is an author, artist, and advocate.
• She has her master's degree in counseling psychology.  
• This is an excerpt from her memoir "Bloodlines: A Memoir of Harm and Healing."

I kicked off my flip-flops, sank my feet into the soft, warm sand. Faith stood beside me. Waves rolled onto the shoreline. July 20, 2013. The first anniversary of Mom's death.

Along with Mom's partner, Bob, who'd flown in from New Jersey, my husband Theo, my daughter Faith, and I were at the beach to pay tribute to Mom. It was Saturday. Families, couples, people walking their dogs, blankets, coolers, and umbrellas dotted the landscape.

Theo and Bob set up beach chairs. Faith and I turned around, our shadows shortish and roundish in the midday sun. Faith unfurled her towel, placed it right next to mine. She peeled off her top and shorts down to her bathing suit. A breeze rustled her hair.

At the beach, I reflected on times gone by

Nearby, a family building a castle reminded me of the days when Theo would bring a shovel and dig a giant hole. Kids, playing tag with the waves, screeched with glee, just like Faith had done at that age.

As she folded her clothes, I caught a glimpse of a scar, felt awash in gratitude for her health, her life, for what we'd survived, our resilience and ability to be together on this day.

I pointed to our beach bag. "Sunscreen," I said to Faith. "Don't need it," she said.

I was already slathered, of course, a giant floppy hat shading my face and shoulders. "I know, but use it anyway, please. You know how much you hate a sunburn."

She acquiesced, and the hiss of the aerosol can sent the chemical smell drifting my way. "I miss Grandma," she said.

"I do too, love," I said. And it was true. Most of all, I missed what might have been. "She'd be so proud of you, though. She is so proud of you."

Sunlight danced on the water's crests and troughs; colors shifted from white to turquoise to deep blue. As soon as the beach had hit our sight line, Faith had relaxed — kindred souls, she and Grandma, in their love for the ocean.

Bob stood. "I'll be back." He headed toward the water's edge, his own footprints following along behind him.

I guessed he wanted to reminisce in private. We hadn't seen him since the previous year, when he'd driven out with Mom's ashes. It must have been as strange for him as it was for us, being together without her.

Faith lay beside me, soaking up the sun. Theo was reading. I ran my fingers through the fine, soft sand. I scooped some up and let it sift from my hand. I'd been journal-writing, reading, thinking, and talking more to my therapist about compassion, and I'd realized that she was right. Again.

I'd been mistaking an unhealthy tendency of self-sacrifice and pragmatic parts of the journey, like scheduling appointments and doing research, as compassionate acts that would, at least theoretically, lessen Faith's suffering — a tiny sliver of a much larger truth.

Compassion in action is actually a set of skills. Skills I'd never learned, requiring an ability to connect, in the fullest sense, with empathy, kindness, and understanding to our shared human experience. Similar to how I'd never learned how to repair communication, talk about difficult feelings, or set healthy boundaries. But therein lay the rub: in order to connect to anyone else in compassion, I first had to connect that way with myself.

Faith sat up. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickled down the sides of her face.

"I'm going in," she said.

In another lifetime, a mermaid. "Enjoy," I said.

She hopped across the hot sand. Theo closed his book. "You OK?"

"Yeah, just sad," I said.

"All you have to do is think of your mother, and she'll be here."

"I know. Thank you."

Waves bandied Faith about like Gumby in the wind. She dove headlong into an oncoming swell, popped up on the other side, and flipped over to float on her back. I spotted Bob's outline, the size of a Lego, down the beach. In light of the last year, everything I used to admire about myself — sarcasm, perfectionism, overachieving — now seemed so… harsh. Critical. Judgmental. Fake.

Bob returned with Faith hot on his heels. She smelled of salt and seaweed. "Here," she said, dropping a few shells on my towel.

"Pretty, babe," I said.

"Should we do the flowers?" Bob asked.

We honored Mom by tossing flowers in the ocean

I'd brought a small bouquet of carnations and unwrapped them now, releasing their sweet scent. I handed a single flower to Theo, Faith, and Bob, and kept one for myself.

At the water's edge, we spoke about my mom, Lauraine: mom, grandmother, partner, friend, survivor, vilomah — parent whose child died. Only now, for the first time, woman to woman, did I wish I could tell Lauraine how sorry I was about the death of her daughter, Lauren.

That whatever her deficiencies in mothering me, around which there would be much more to uncover and to heal, I saw she had loved, lost, and grieved. I sensed a softening toward Mom, as a person who had not had the capacity, for whatever reason, to recognize or acknowledge the repercussions of our bloodlines.

Bob spoke first, finishing with, "You never know what you've got until it's gone."

Theo probably said, "May her memory be eternal."Faith said, "I miss you, Grandma."

And me. I said, "I miss you, Mom. I love you."

Foamy residue swirled around our feet. "Ready, guys?" I said.

"One, two, three!"

We tossed our flowers into the sea.

Excerpted from "Bloodlines: A Memoir of Harm and Healing" by Tracey Yokas. Copyright 2024 Tracey Yokas. Published by She Writes Press.