Some souls never leave.

# Some Souls Never Leave

There is a strange thing that happens after someone you deeply love passes away.

At first, grief feels loud. Heavy. Unavoidable. It sits in the room with you. It follows you into grocery stores, holidays, quiet drives home, random Tuesday afternoons, and moments you never prepared for. People often talk about loss like it is an ending, a disappearance, a door shutting forever.

But over time, I realized something else.

Some souls never really leave.

They simply change form.

My mom had one of those souls.

She had the kind of laugh that filled a room before you even understood the joke. She was analytical, observant, unintentionally hilarious, and somehow able to say the most shocking thing at exactly the right moment. After she passed, people would come up to me laughing before they even finished their stories.

“Oh my gosh, your mom had me roaring when she said…”

And somehow, hearing those stories healed something in me.

I realized my mom had become this accidental comedian living inside the memories of other people. She never tried to perform. It was simply who she was. She had this childlike heart, almost like a sister at times, always joking around with me.

And truthfully, she loved that idea.

She never wanted people to feel beneath one another. She believed in meeting people where they were, heart to heart. Whenever someone told us we looked alike, she would light up instantly and grin from ear to ear.

“We’re like sisters, Lyndsey.”

And I would laugh and tell her, “Yeah mom, you’re right. We look more like sisters than mom and daughter.”

Then she’d point at me and say, “But I’m still your mom, and you have to listen to me.”

And I’d answer, “Yes, and I won’t forget it.”

“Good,” she’d laugh.

Those little exchanges became sacred after she passed. Tiny moments that seemed ordinary then, but now feel like living pieces of her soul I still carry with me.

We even had our own running joke about her “invisible shit list.” If she was irritated with someone, she would dramatically announce they were on it. Sometimes I’d ask her, “Am I off the shit list yet?” and she’d pause and say, “Ohhhh… I don’t think so. I’ll let you know.”

Then we’d both completely lose it laughing.

I can still hear her voice saying it.

That’s the thing grief taught me that I never understood before. Love does not disappear because the body does.

I can’t eat chocolate without thinking of my mom. Chocolate was comfort in our house. A coping mechanism. A little emotional life raft she always made sure we had nearby. Even now, in moments of grief, I still feel her spirit around me. Sometimes during readings, she has come through so strongly that midway through speaking, I realize it’s her standing there smiling. The same warmth. The same presence. The same desire to help.

She never stays long.

But sometimes it feels like we are in the same room again, and for a moment, nothing is missing.

Not everyone knew how deeply compassionate she really was. My mom adopted children. She helped people whenever she could. Food, money, kindness, conversation. She gave what she had.

I remember one day we passed a homeless man sitting outside with his dog. It devastated her knowing they would sleep outside that night. The next day, we drove back with a McDonald’s gift card, a large bag of dog food, and supplies for him. She got out of the car, knelt down to pet the dog, and lovingly warned the man, “You better take care of this dog, or I’ll come back and talk to you.”

He started crying.

She meant it, too.

She loved animals deeply. She loved children deeply. If there was a baby nearby, she was going to end up holding it. There was no stopping it. She could talk to anyone. Meanwhile, I would sometimes shut down with anxiety around strangers, amazed at how she could effortlessly keep a conversation going with practically anyone. Even now, when I find myself hesitating to reach out to someone or shrinking back from the world a little, I think about her warmth and the way she made people feel immediately safe around her.

After losing her, I started understanding that death is not always the severing we think it is.

Sometimes it becomes a different kind of relationship.

There are moments now where I feel closer to her than I even did while she was alive. Not because I miss her less, but because I finally understand the depth of what she gave me. My mom believed in people. She admired humanitarians. She would tell me stories about Princess Diana and speak about goodness like it mattered. She wanted me to see the value in helping others, in caring, in staying human in a world that often hardens people.

And she believed in me long before I believed in myself.

Back then, when she encouraged me, I brushed it off. I thought, “She’s just my mom trying to make me feel better.” I didn’t realize how sacred it is to have someone genuinely rooting for your soul. Someone who sees possibility in you during the moments you only see failure.

Now I understand.

Her love still beats inside my heart. It still laces my thoughts every day. Sometimes I catch myself saying something kind to myself in the exact tone she would have used, and it hits me all over again that parts of her are still alive inside me.

Her soul has not left me.

In many ways, it still guides me, comforts me, and walks beside me.

And maybe that is what real love does.

Maybe real love leaves fingerprints on the soul that even death cannot touch.

Some souls never leave.

And maybe they were never meant to.