By Jessica Solomon
There are certain numbers that carry deeper meaning than what appears on the surface. In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 holds profound significance. It represents the Hebrew word chai, meaning “life.” And in my life, 18 is more than symbolic—it’s woven into the very fabric of my mother’s story.
My mother was born on June 18. She passed away on January 18, in the year 2018. While those dates might seem like coincidence to some, I believe there’s something more to them. Her life, framed by the number that represents life itself. My mother, Nancy, was strong, funny and full of pearls of wisdom.
To call my mother a force would be an understatement. She was super witty. I believe we shared a sense of humor that made the world feel like ours alone—a private language of laughter and observation. We were interested in things others might find odd or niche, and those shared fascinations remain some of my favorite memories.
One thing my mother made clear before she passed was that she didn’t want people to cry for her. She said it more than once. It was her way—strong, brave, possibly even protective. And so, I honored that wish with every fiber of my being. I didn’t cry. Not for a long, long time. I locked my grief in a quiet corner of my soul and kept living, thinking I was doing right by her.
But pain doesn’t vanish when ignored. It waits. And the more I tried to deny it, the more it stretched out, silently shaping my days. One day, after holding it in for so long, I decided to let myself break. I cried. I mourned. I indulged every emotion I had carefully tucked away. And what surprised me most wasn’t the pain—it was the healing.
I realized that by not crying, I was keeping her alive in the only way I thought I could: through a commitment to her wishes. But eventually, I understood something deeper. Letting go of that mental contract wasn’t a betrayal. It was an evolution. Giving myself permission to grieve was what I desperately needed to keep her truly alive—in a way that was meaningful, sustainable, and emotionally honest.
Now, I stay connected to her through ritual and memory, not denial. I set my yoga class intentions on her. I play the Motown music she loved and remember the way she’d dance or sing along. I watch the sunset and think about that breathtaking evening when she passed—how the sky burned in color, and how grateful I was to be present in that final moment. That, too, was a gift.
Life isn’t linear. It moves in waves—joy, sorrow, growth, stillness. We celebrate birth with enthusiasm. Why shouldn’t we continue celebrating the people we love even after they’re gone? The relationship doesn’t end—it simply changes form.
My mother’s story is stitched with the number 18—chai, life. And she did it her way. Now, I honor her life by living mine with presence, gratitude, music, tears, laughter, and love.
Because chai doesn’t just mean life in the biological sense—it means spirit, connection, legacy.
And in that way, she is still very much alive.