In honor of my mom's birthday today, I wanted to share the eulogy I read for her at her memorial. I miss you, mama.

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My mom always read my essays during college. I wish she was here to proofread this now because it’s going to be a mess. I have no idea how to write a eulogy, just like I have no idea how to live in a world without my mom.

What I do know: I love my mom. I am so lucky to have loved her, and not just because of all the same reasons you all feel lucky to have known her - because she was funny, and smart, and kind, and all of that. But because I love her without trauma, hesitation, or complication. She made plenty of mistakes but I always knew she loved me and supported me, which is kind of crazy considering what a moody teenager I was.

My mom was a teacher and a model for me in countless ways, from showing me women could keep their last names to how to make the perfect homemade whipped cream. She didn’t have me until she was 37, and showed me that I could choose a life for myself before I was truly ready to be a mother.

She showed me the powerful but small and invisible acts of showing up for your community. For the longest time she had the words “Speak up, even when your voice shakes” posted up in our kitchen for me to look at everyday, even though it was a reminder for her. She showed me how to stay informed, have opinions, and speak up - her speed dials were for our representatives and C-SPAN. She showed me how to be a woman, a mother, and a citizen.

I loved my mom so much, and in no particular order, here are some of the reasons why:

She read so much from the library that she started making small pencil marks in the back to remind her what she had read. The librarians caught it and made her stop.
One night she fell when my friends were over, and busted her nose pretty badly. They told her to come back in a week to get her stitches out, expecting her to come to an office during the day like a normal person. Instead, a week later exactly, she brought me and my friends Sarah and Josh, to the ER to get her stitches out around 1am. She was always a night owl.
She knew microplastics would be a thing someday, and always preferred glass.
She also knew antibiotic resistant bacteria strains would be a thing, and didn’t let me use antibacterial soaps.
We went shopping at a pretty rundown, dusty grocery store for months because Vons’ workers were on a strike. We were never scabs who crossed picket lines.
I always knew she’d be tracking my flight, wherever I was going, even if it wasn’t to visit her.
When I was in kindergarten, she was awed about how I drew a blueprint of our house instead of a typical front style. She had a conference with my teacher to discuss my genius, but alas, the teacher was less impressed.
She designed houses all the time. She wanted to be an architect, and I remember her early on telling me that grownups made her believe she couldn’t be one because she was a woman. She made sure I knew they were wrong.
She liked native drought tolerant plants before it was cool.
She taught me how to be upset with unsafe drivers, not slow drivers, and her truck still has a bumper sticker that says “Visualize using your turn signal.” She tried to teach me to drive but I put the brakes on too hard, she slammed her head on the windshield, and cracked the glass. So then my dad taught me…
One time she brought my beloved cat, Cally, to meet Derek and I at La Purisima Mission after we had a day out. There was no specific reason for this, besides that she knew I loved Cally and had a real flair for the spontaneous sometimes.
She played with measuring tapes to still her restless hands. We had so many everywhere, hiding in nooks and crannies. We’d buy out Walmart every few months to restock.
The movies we watched together, late into the night when everyone else was asleep: Clueless, First Wives Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, I Capture the Castle, War Games, Pretty Woman, and many more. One of the last things I wrote to her was realizing that my immigration policy opinions are 100% influenced by Cher’s analogy to making room at the table when people show up who didn’t RSVP.
The budgeting she taught me was "We'll go shopping but spend as little as possible, sort of.”
She was a safe place for many of my friends. She gave and gave, and let us always take over the house.
She was my mom first, and a grandma second. She asked me how I was and less how the baby was, and not a lot of people remember to do that.
And so many more reasons that I am sure I will remember for the rest of my life, at the highest highs and lowest lows, wishing she was still giving me more reasons to love her.

8 years ago, almost to the day, she couldn’t breathe and my dad rushed her to the hospital. She was intubated and never spoke again. She couldn’t laugh without coughing and couldn’t cry without worrying about suffocating herself. My relationship with her changed in an instant from one where I called her on the phone to talk everyday about nothing and everything, to never hearing her voice again. This grief today is like a second grief.

I wish Lyra could have known my mom before the cancer took her voice and mobility. Lyra doesn’t have many strong memories with her, besides dancing to the Beach Boys and getting to watch cozy murder mysteries. When Lyra found out grandma died, she said she wished she had longer - it wasn’t fair how much time we got with her. I agree, baby girl.

Right before mom died, I told her she was the best mom. She shook her head and pointed to me instead. But I learn by example.

Pat died peacefully on May 13, 2025. There will be a celebration of life in Lompoc, California on June 28, 2025.

More information and the obituary are to come.