From Wishing Her Gone to Dreading Goodbye

How forgiving my mother changed everything—and why I'm now terrified of losing her.

Mom and I at our first book launch for MILDRED’S MINDSET
Photo Credit: Tina Buckman

There’s been a long silence here. Not intentional—just the kind of silence that happens when life becomes too loud to write through.

My 101-year-old mother, Mildred, recently caught the flu. And it hit her hard. She became very sick, and I became very scared. The kind of scared that tightens your chest, knots your stomach, and makes you feel like the floor might give out at any moment. The nurse had the oxygen machine and nebulizer delivered. She insisted we keep them in the house. “When you need them,” she said, “you won’t have time to wait.” I looked at this equipment and felt a weight drop onto my shoulders, heavier than I could’ve imagined.

How will I do this?

I am her full-time caregiver. I manage nearly every aspect of her life. I am also single. I have never married, I don’t have children, and there is no one by my side I can lean on when the fear hits. My brother has his own health issues, and his own family. But for my mother, I’m the one. The only one. And for the first time, I find myself longing for a partner. Someone who is always there for you—as you are for them. Someone to turn to when everything inside is unraveling. But right now, I’m alone in this.

When she got sick, the fear that consumed me wasn’t the same, but it felt eerily similar. The tightness in my chest, the spinning thoughts, the sense that I was bracing for something I couldn’t control. As a child, I was afraid of what she might do to me—her punishment, her rage, her unpredictable outbursts that were always aimed at me. It wasn’t occasional. It was constant. I had no refuge in my own home, no one to turn to, no one to protect me. That fear lived in my body, and it made me physically ill—headaches, dizzy spells, nausea. I was in survival mode. Now, the fear is about losing her. The panic that she might slip away. That I won’t be able to stop it. That I’ll be left alone.

Selfie I took of us recently

Now, decades later, with my mother so fragile, that fear came rushing back. But it’s different now. It lives in my stomach, not my throat. The questions swirl: Will I be able to do this? Will I be strong enough? Can I hold it all together?

I’m someone who feels everything—sometimes too much. I don’t just feel my own pain; I absorb the pain of others. I’ve learned how to hold space for others, to be present and supportive through their struggles. But now, I have to hold space for myself. I have no choice. Still, I wonder what will happen when the roles I’ve built my life around begin to dissolve.

Because right now, my days revolve around keeping my mother going. Keeping her happy. Giving her things to look forward to. And when she’s happy—I’m happy. Next week, we’ll be speaking in front of a few hundred people. She thrives in the spotlight. She lights up with praise. And the book signings—her fans line up, excited for a photo and a personalized copy of Mildred’s Mindset. It fills her with energy, purpose, and joy.

And then there’s happy hour. That’s her sweet spot. She plants herself at the bar, turns to the person beside her, drops her age, and takes off like a rocket. Everyone becomes her new best friend. There’s laughter, stories, and admiration pouring toward her. She eats it up. And I bask in the glow of her happiness.

But I can’t stop thinking: What happens when she can no longer do these things? When she no longer lights up at a bar or beams in front of a crowd? How do I keep her going then?

There was a time when I couldn’t imagine a future with my mother in it. I only wished she were gone. That if she died, I would finally be free. But now… now I can't imagine a future without her. We’ve become so close, so bonded, that her happiness and mine are inseparably intertwined.

That transformation didn’t happen overnight. It took work—deep, painful, soul-altering work. I had to go back into the past, unearth old wounds, and face the trauma head-on. I had to reframe my mother not as the villain of my story, but as a wounded child of her own time, doing the best she could with what she had. That’s what forgiveness looks like. And that’s what my upcoming memoir is about—Bullied to Besties: A Daughter’s Journey to Forgiveness. It’s the story of how I got from there to here.

As I wrote this, I debated sharing this video we made when she first got sick. It’s not how most people are used to seeing her—she looks frail, and she’s asking for help. But this is part of the truth. And in many ways, it’s what this essay is about: vulnerability, change, and showing up anyway.

Mildred at 101, sharing her truth

So yes, I’ve been quiet. But it’s not because I have nothing to say. It’s because I’ve been living inside the story again. Living inside the questions, the fear, the love, and the complicated grace of caregiving at the edge of life.

This is what forgiveness makes possible—not forgetting, not erasing, but holding it all at once. The pain. The healing. The past. The present. And the wonder of what’s still to come.

Gayle Kirschenbaum is an Emmy-winning filmmaker, photographer, writer, coach, and speaker. Her film LOOK AT US NOW, MOTHER! premiered on Netflix and has been credited with transforming lives. Her TED talk is “No More Drama with Mama.” Gayle co-authored Mildred's Mindset: Wisdom from a Woman Centenarian with her mother, centenarian influencer Mildred Kirschenbaum. Gayle's upcoming memoir is Bullied to Besties: A Daughter's Journey to Forgiveness.
To learn more visit GayleKirschenbaum.com.
Follow Gayle & Mildred on Instagram and TikTok @glkirschenbaum