It was always silly of me to think that I wouldn’t outlive my mother.

She died at fifty-seven—suddenly, out of the blue. My life afterward was forever changed, some of it for the good, some of it for the bad. The bad is obvious: a sadness that filled my heart and clouded my days; a shock to the system; the loss of my foundation, my rock, my home. The loss of her. Of all the special days—and the ordinary days—that she was no longer part of.

The good part was unexpected. Her death reframed my entire consciousness. It made me less afraid—while also giving me a more balanced perspective on living. Whether it was public speaking, running a marathon, or starting law school in my forties, I was undeterred. What was the worst thing that could happen? To me, it felt as though the worst thing already had.

But as I approached the age of fifty-seven, I felt oddly vulnerable. Mortal.

It helped to think about what my mother’s life had been like in the years before she died. A daily drinker since her twenties, my mom could barely wait until 5:00 p.m. to pour her first scotch “on the rocks.” She kept pace with my alcoholic father when they were together, a dynamic that wore on her in unhealthy ways. She was always chubby—a word she used to describe herself—her legs splattered with varicosities that ached at the end of a long day.

It seems strange to me now that I didn’t notice all of this more at the time. The drinking. The toll it was taking on her physically and mentally. I knew she wasn’t especially happy—but I never thought she would die. I don’t think our culture really considers that drinking can kill you. And technically, my mother did not die of alcohol; she died of a heart condition. But the daily drinking surely didn’t help, and most likely exacerbated her death.

Even knowing that—seeing the differences between her lifestyle and mine—turning fifty-seven felt ominous. Surviving the year felt uncertain, as though maybe I wouldn’t make it. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it felt in my body.

That fear was enough to motivate me to give up alcohol—my joyful companion for decades. Knowing it was causing me anxiety and stress, knowing it was only hurting my body, believing that it may have contributed to my mother’s death—all of that crystallized into a simple idea: I wanted to be as healthy as possible. I wanted to control what I could, to live as long as I could, to be alive for my children. That was enough.

As it does, the year flew by. A cliché, yes—but as I get older, time really does move faster. And guess what? I survived fifty-seven. I’m fifty-eight now, and it feels different. It’s strange that she never got to see it—either herself turning fifty-eight, or me turning fifty-eight.

Her legacy lives on in me now: this alcohol-free self who still remembers her smile, her laugh, and the joy she took in being my mom.

My mother’s death changed me—mostly for the good. But every day, I would trade all of it just to see her face, hold her hand, feel her hug.

Or pour her a drink.