I’ve spent the majority of my life calling my mom Karol. At times it was K-Dawg or Kaka. When I needed something, I called her mother.

Karol was my biggest fan. She spent my entire life encouraging me to chase dreams, run for president, catch wild raccoons and she never once let me believe the world was too big or too scary for me to handle. 

She convinced me I was funny, smart and brave. She convinced me that I was strong. She always saw the best in me and taught me to see it in myself. She laughed harder at my jokes than anyone else. 

I miss her laugh. 

Because of who she was, I walk into rooms with my head held high and the confidence that there are friends to be made. Because of who she was, I grew to believe I was charismatic and charming and funny and because of who she was, the insecurities that that might not be true were kept at bay.

Karol didn’t teach me wisdom or restraint. She didn’t teach me caution or planning. She didn’t teach me to hesitate or to wait. These aren’t traits she had. 

Karol taught me to go. She taught me to shoot first and aim later, live large and seek people. She taught me that people, and the stories they carry, are worth collecting and worth cherishing. She taught me that rollerblading inside was the right way to live and anyone who said otherwise can go touch grass. 

She taught me that chaos is something to be ridden, not feared. She taught me to laugh with the wind in my hair and she let 7 year olds drive snow mobiles. With quiet resilience, Karol Monnet braved the chaos and invited those near her to do the same.

She let her youngest son call her by her first name because she understood that respect doesn’t manifest as a title. She knew I was a defiant little shit from the moment she met me, and she somehow managed to mother me none the less.

My mom wasn’t perfect – but she never pretended to be. She carried her own pain and shame as a reminder to never judge someone else for theirs. She believed in second and third chances and she believed that all locking doors was stupid and done only by idiots. 

Alongside a vile number of “Live Laugh Love” signs, Karol had a note on her refrigerator that she kept for years.

“Sometimes courage doesn’t roar. Sometimes Courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying I will try again tomorrow”

Karol spent 59 years teaching her kids this courage. Every part of me wants to scream and I can feel anger seething under my skin. I can feel the pain of the loss threatening to overwhelm me and I can’t decide if I want to break glass or adopt a dog. I don’t feel grounded or reasonable or put together and right now, the chaos feels overwhelming.

But in that space, I can hear it. I can hear the bravery of Karol. It’s a quiet, resilient voice that reminds me that right now, it may not be time to shout. Right now, it may have to be enough to mourn, to do my best, and to try again tomorrow.

Mom – thank you for teaching me that its okay to take things one day at a time while also teaching me that I can do anything. Thank you for believing in me when I dreamed and encouraging me when I failed. Thank you for never asking me to be anything other than me and for holding me to a standard of loving others well. I learned from the best – and I miss you.