Julia's Bookshelves

When my mom was diagnosed with Glioblastoma in December of 2024, I struggled to face the future. It was easy to live in denial for a while, and to not focus on the near future where I would lose her. She passed away in March of 2026. I cannot say enough to encapsulate her bravery and strength through her fight. She was truly a badass.

Still, now I am standing at the forefront of an indeterminable expanse of time, and walking down that road feels daunting without my mom. Never in my worst moments had I pictured a life where I lost her in this way, or this early. It was not supposed to be our story, and yet it is. Needless to say, it has felt impossible to return to reading, writing, and all of the things I’ve loved about this blog in the wake of this massive loss. But my mom loved my passion for books, and she loved reading, too. I think the only way I can conceive of continuing this blog is by starting off sharing a bit about my mom and what she meant to me. 

She loved to read. To this day, she is the fastest reader I’ve ever known. I would not be the bookworm I am today without her. It was always a challenge to buy her books for her birthday or as Christmas presents because she read much. Here’s are four very different books that remind me of her:

• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott – She forced me to read this classic when I was a kid, and I really did not want to. Now it is one of my favorite books of all time and I have reread it on several occasions. I am a Jo March superfan.
• Educated by Tara Westover – She was enthralled by this memoir and I heard her recommend it on at least a dozen occasions! She was always intrigued by any cult or cult-adjacent stories.  
• Pachinko by Min Jin Lee – There was something so interesting about sharing our thoughts on this multigenerational story with one another. It instantly became a favorite for both of us. 
• The Summer I Turned Pretty by Jenny Han – We passed this book back and forth on vacation years before the show came out. Team Conrad forever. 

One of the things my mom and I share in common is that we are both natural storytellers. In some ways, our love of storytelling is quite similar. She loved sharing gossip in a circle of beach chairs with her cousins, or on the side of the soccer field with the other team moms. I too have this thirst for a bit of gab in my life. 

But we were both deliberate, thoughtful storytellers as well, with very different mediums of choice. For me, writing has always been my calling. I have found no clearer form of expression. My mom was an incredibly gifted painter. She told stories through her many still life paintings and self-portraits. Often conveying the beauty of the ordinary, the paintings showcased many small figurines, textured drapings, and sometimes small photographs integrated into the setting. She had an incredible talent for visualizing light through a window and depicting delicate patterns on textiles.

When I look at my mom’s paintings, I am reminded of how beautiful every simple moment is. Many of her paintings were created before my parents moved into the home where they would raise their three children in, and our house was filled with the items in her artwork. One of my favorite paintings features a glass salad bowl that is still in our kitchen today, and a picture frame stuffed with dried flowers that lived in on my parent’s dresser while I was growing up.

It feels overly ambitious as a young artist to think about legacy, but it has been on my mind a lot since her passing. My mom was young when she created many of the still life paintings that I love so dearly, and I wonder if she knew how the details in these paintings would have such staying power for those that love her. Now her art is the backdrop of my life. From the stacked art cards on my kitchen table, to the framed watercolors hanging salon-style above my couch, she remains everywhere in my space and creative practice. When I sit down to write, I consider the still life I am laying for each scene. What drapes across the kitchen table the characters sit at? What small objects fill their windowsills and bookshelves and kitchen counters? These are the details I craft with a painter’s eye.

As a child, the visual and the written often felt so different. Her art form seemed so far from my own, but now I regard how it has influenced me to pause and paint the visual scene in every piece I write. A painter does not run from one painting to the next, and the viewer does not race past the details. The artist invites the consumer to sit with their subject for a while. These days, I am letting my prose linger a bit more. I am taking the time to study the world I create.

The main subject I keep returning to in her art is light: light shining on trees, light filtering through a window, and light reflecting off of glass objects. Every painting needs light for the subject to appear, and yet it is often a silent actor. My mom’s attentiveness to this detail in her work is clear. I will always remain fascinated by the light in her paintings.

I wish I had something profound to offer about living with grief, but the truth is I do agree with the widely accepted theory that grief is not a monolith. Some days the pain of loss is very acute, other days broad and dull. I will not pretend to be wise enough to offer advice on how to handle the beast of grief except to say this: the day is better when I think of how remarkable she was.

Some people think their loved ones come back as birds or flowers, or maybe that they give them signs. I’m not sure what I think. All I know is, when life is hard, I look for the light coming through the window. And when I see it, I think of her.