“I left you something,” she said as I pulled away from the beach. We had just taken a walk together, and somehow, when I wasn’t looking, she had snuck something into the back of my car before I drove off.

I made my way to the grocery store. It was around 4 p.m. on March 1. I had been back in Alaska for fifteen days and was slowly getting into a rhythm with my writing and adjusting to the 9 a.m. sunrise.

March 1 was the thirteenth anniversary of my mom’s death. But no one here knew, because I hadn’t mentioned it. Part of me always wondered: if I don’t mention it, will it hurt less? Will it be less sad?

Turns out, no.

I parked at the store and jumped out of the car to check the back seat. There was a cardboard box with a flower plant inside. A few colorful candles and a card. I opened the envelope.

Inside was a beautiful message: she wrote that, though she didn’t know my mother, she felt as if she did because she knew me. And how she wasn’t sure the exact date she died, but she thought it might be a day in March.

I sat there reading her card, tears running down my face in the Safeway parking lot.

-

I got home that evening and saw I had an Instagram message from one of my hosts from the More Good road trip, who did know the date. “Can I ask you something personal? Are there places you feel your mom’s presence the most? And is Alaska one? If not, can you tell me where those places are for you?”

I stared at Megan’s message for a moment before typing back.

I told her that while I loved Alaska, the places I feel my mom most aren’t really places at all.

They’re people.

I felt her wherever people loved me the way she had.

I think that is why I loved the road trip so much. Because everywhere I went, people took care of me. Fed me. Encouraged me. Cared for me. She was everywhere on the road in almost everyone I met.

I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing beautiful views. And while standing on top of a mountain can make me feel brave, strong, and alive, it doesn’t make me feel close to Mom.

People do.

The ones who show up. Like Kara, who somehow knew exactly what March 1 meant and left flowers and beautiful words when I needed them most.

Like Allison and Preston, who spent Mother’s Day with me, taking me on an adventure across the bay.

Like Brad, who handed me the keys to his car for a long drive back to Anchorage without a second thought.

Like Emily, who not only threw me a goodbye party before I had to fly back to New York, but then showed up at my door the next morning with cleaning supplies and a mop. I did not call her. And I sure as heck did not give myself enough time to clean before I left. And yet, she showed up. She knew.

And that is only a fraction of the people and a fraction of the things they did for me.

Alaska isn’t just the place my nervous system feels the most calm. It is the place I feel mom the most. Because I feel so loved there. So supported.

And now, so accomplished.

Because after three months in my little cabin on top of Ohlson Mountain, with nothing to distract me but a moose in my window, I finished my book.

I finished it on Mother’s Day weekend. Fittingly.

And then I invited over a few women from the Homer community who I felt had either reminded me of my mother or mothered me in some way that made me feel as comfortable as possible standing in front of them to read the introduction to my book. Many of them knew I had gone on a journey, but not many knew the origin story. So I figured I could read it to them and see how they would react. Whether it would land.

It was a potluck. Because, Alaska.

Each of them brought a delicious dish. I printed out a few photographs from the trip and nailed them to some unused wood planks I found lying under the house. I made a custom kindness-themed cocktail list. The empathy elixir being the biggest hit, with beet apple ginger ice cubes and muddled mint. All day, I imagined standing on the deck of the house and all of them sitting on the lawn in front of me as I read to them.

And then it snowed.

So the 17 women I invited over huddled into my little writer’s cabin. They piled onto the couch and in the little loft. And I read them my introduction.

Afterward, some of them asked questions, which I answered before Jenny looked at me and said, “Could I lead us in a song?”

I looked at her, confused at first. The East Coast in me immediately imagines Kumbaya breaking out. But instead, she started to sing this:

“Find yourself a power spot.

Bring along a spoon and a cooking pot.

Bring air, bring fire, bring water, bring earth.

And a new Universe will birth.”

And within a few minutes, every woman in the room clapped her hands and sang along. And it was really, truly beautiful.

Because for a moment, the world felt like it stopped. And we were all in this moment, together. And it was exactly what I’ve always wanted with More Good. For us to forget everything else that tries to pull us apart, and be in a moment where we feel brought together again.

And while they all sang around me, I had my answer.

Where do I feel her the most? Here. In these moments. In this cabin, with these people.

I wouldn’t find her in my hometown anymore. Or inside the house where I grew up. Or in a cemetery.

I’d find her here. In rooms full of people who love me the way she did.

Places where people drive out in the snow and rain to show up for me. Who leave me letters in my car, or offer their vehicle to borrow with no questions asked. The ones who show up with a mop and bucket when I am too overwhelmed to ask for help.

-

The view from my cabin windows on Ohlson Mountain was overwhelmingly beautiful every day. Moose. Northern Lights. Sandhill cranes. But it was the view from inside the cabin that night I will remember most from my time in Alaska.

Because for the first time, in a long time, I didn’t feel her absence. She was everywhere in that room, in all of the faces who showed up and in all of the kindness they offered and the way they cared for me.

It felt as though she had found her way back to me through all of the people I found in Homer, Alaska.

The views from my cabin window

and my favorite view, the one from inside: