Grief and Hummingbird Cake
How the past and the future can help appreciate the present moment.
Distinct memories have a way of inducing time travel, enveloping us in the moment regardless of how far away we are from it now. There are many moments I think about from my childhood, but one that sets the stage for this particular story is about my mom. She passed away when I was 20 so recounting memories is both therapeutic and a way to keep her story alive.
As my mom’s birthday came and went this past week, I reflect on the complex web that grief weaves. Special dates are weird; we anticipate them with dread yet often see them arrive like any other day.
I’ve found that grief doesn’t stay nestled between dates on a calendar. It sneaks up unexpectedly, making its presence felt in ordinary moments rather than just designated occasions. It refuses to fit into a neat schedule, but that’s okay.
Instead of trying to fix or eradicate the pain, I focus on how to live with it and honor it—which is exactly what I do when discussing the amazingness of a specific confectionary masterpiece in my mom’s baking repertoire: hummingbird cake.
I was always skeptical of baking when I was younger—too many steps, too much waiting. But I sense now that for my mom, those moments were meditative. Just as I revel in the methodical process of brewing my morning coffee, she found solace in the precise science of baking. You don’t need to have an opinion on the recipe, the recipe doesn’t start bickering with its sibling- you have expectations and results. Recipes guarantee a positive outcome if followed with minimal deviation, a stark contrast to the lack of guidelines or guarantees in parenting.
Hummingbird cake, I usually explain as the “everything but the kitchen sink” cake—a spice cake crammed with pineapple, banana, coconut, nuts, and topped with a white chocolate cream cheese icing. A tropical sweet retreat that is meant to be enjoyed no questions asked. Happiness that tastes this good belongs in every diet.
When I was in college, my mom delivered a whole slab of it to my dorm room during my freshman year. Each time I think about it, and as I write this, I can still visualize her carrying that cake down the hall, her excitement, smile, and demeanor forever engrained in my mind, my dad blissfully following her. They came to my university to celebrate my and my twin brother’s birthday, but luckily the cake wasn’t made to share- it was just for me. Like a personal pizza..but better (obviously).
The tray fit perfectly into my dorm’s mini-freezer and brought weeks of indulgent joy. My routine involved enjoying that cake by the spoonful, no additional plates needed- a delightful, barbaric existence.
I’m not sure why this cake and the moments surrounding it are so vivid for me. Probably because my roommate would come in and chuckle at the sight of me sitting on a beanbag eating from the tray like I was eating directly from a Coldstone creamery marble slab.
Maybe the universe or whatever ‘spirits that be’ knew I’d want this memory for the future.
Around two years after this, my mom was gone. Her passing marked a pre and post of my life as I knew it and made every memory with her more valuable. Her advice, her calls and texts, her baking, her hand-written notes, her presence, her voice—a gift that I will never get again, but something I am eternally grateful to have had.
Her absence follows me daily, but I try to find ways- like recounting this story- to relive the joy instead of the sadness that comes with the longing.
Whenever I see the cake on a menu, I instinctively order it, imagining sharing a slice with her, catching her up on the last 14 years- the highs and lows, the ebb and flow of life, and how much the world, and mine in particular, has changed since the last time I got to share a moment with her.
Grief brings strange revelations. What were once mundane moments morph into vital pieces of your heart, something you wish you could reclaim as your current reality. At 20 years old, I was still naïve about the depths of grief. The pain of losing a parent young- or losing anyone you care about deeply- creates a gaping hole in your heart. And while that space isn’t ever filled, it helps develop a keen sense of empathy, healing, and (for some) a personal independence that becomes a superpower.
Regardless of the life lessons waiting on the other side of loss, it doesn’t negate the feeling of longing for one more moment. When Ed Sheeran sang about wishing heaven had business hours, this is what he meant.
One concept I often return to is the marble in a jar. In the initial aftermath of loss—whether from death or change—grief feels all-consuming. Everything is going on around the marble, nothing feels real outside the immediate loss.
However, as time passes, life, the jar, grows around that grief.
Its form doesn’t disappear, it doesn’t even get smaller, but the moments of pain gradually space themselves out, allowing room for joy amid the sorrow. Not only is this a sign that life can continue to grow and change form, it’s also a reminder that we can honor our past while advocating for our own happiness- that’s what anyone who cares about us would want, right?
Reflecting on significant life changes, I find strength in knowing that the initial sting will eventually ease, and growth persists.
We’ve been conditioned as a society to reduce struggle - but we can do hard things and grow from difficult moments, just as the jar gets bigger around our defining moments.
The biggest celebration should be our ability to overcome.
Yes, there are times that are filled with sadness, maybe a little despair, but finding joy DESPITE the shadow of loss is a way to take every ingredient we’ve been given in life and make something delicious. So maybe, instead of making lemonade from the lemons we’re given, I’ll take every single ingredient and make hummingbird cake.
Thanks for reading! Catch essays like this once a week in your inbox. One additional letter includes more thoughts on training, running, and adjusting to American life after living abroad. Hope to see you around these parts of the internet.