Dear Readers,

In our series celebrating the strength and resilience of mothers, I am honored to share with you Anna Maria's moving story. Born in Switzerland and raised in Italy, Anna Maria's life has been a tapestry of love, loss, and unwavering strength. Her journey is not just a tale of maternal love, but also of finding light in the darkest of times. As you read her story, I hope you find inspiration in her courage and her ability to keep the wind blowing despite everything.

YET THE WIND STILL BLOWS ......

My story is one of many stories of women, of mothers.

I was born in Lucerne, Switzerland, not because I am German, but because my parents were there working to earn money and build a house in Italy. Unable to keep me due to work, they sent me to Italy to live with my grandparents, where I grew up in a beautiful country house, full of affection and cuddles. There were my grandparents, uncles who never let me want for anything, and I grew up serene.

Then, my parents decided to return to Italy permanently, and I joined them. A sister and a brother were also born, and the family went on with its satisfactions and difficulties. But my heart always remained there, in that country house where I had spent my childhood, so much so that in my adolescence I returned to live with my grandparents. My adolescence was a continuous search for myself, among doubts, sufferings due to misunderstandings I created, a bit of anorexia, and expectations for the future.

I always had a great faith in God, witnessed by my grandmother Augusta, so much so that I thought my path was not in marriage but in total dedication to Him. Around twenty, I met the love of my life (so I thought). But it wasn't so. I left him because he was a man undecided between choosing what his mother and sister said and what I proposed to him.

The disappointment was so great that I didn't want to know about anyone anymore. The men I met were all problematic. So, I gave up and dedicated myself to travel, theater (I acted in a company), and fun.

But I missed a partner to share life with, to form a family, to have children. And finally, one summer in Lignano, I met a boy my age (I was already 29 years old) who immediately courted me, sought me out despite the distance. He lived in Lombardy, I in Veneto. But the distances soon shortened. He was sure of what he said, wanted a family, was not attached to his mother's apron strings. And he was also a handsome man. In short, the right type. So, we got married, and I left the land I had grown up in and loved so much for love.

It was not easy. Moving to live in Lombardy, in the province of Lecco, caused many problems for me. Loneliness, nostalgia were daily companions. Even though my life was brightened by the birth of Davide.

My beautiful Davide. Beautiful treasure, infinite joy, beloved son (and later you will understand why I use these adjectives).

After Davide, Alessandro was also born. But the nostalgia didn't leave me and, like a woodworm, led me to a very strong depression, which gripped my life for years. It seemed the black tunnel would never end. But slowly, with pharmaceutical treatments and the attention of my husband, I recovered. I came out of the tunnel and started living again. But ... another blow of life was waiting for me around the corner. The death of my son Davide, 22 years old.

There was a party in the woods of the town. Friday evening, he left after dinner and with a smile greeted me. I never saw him again. At 3 in the morning of Saturday, July 9, 2016, my husband and I heard motorcycles on the road. And then ... Bang a shot. We rushed out. We saw two motorcycles on the ground with their respective drivers. "It's Davide," my husband shouted at me. "But how Davide!" I yelled. It was him, lying on the ground dead. My husband tried to resuscitate his heart. But nothing. Along with him was another boy on the ground with another motorcycle. He too was dead. Incredible pain. Two young lives cut short. An endless morning. The police, the usual questions, the hearse, the morgue, identifying the body. Terrible. I was stunned, so was my husband. The news went around the village, everyone was incredulous. Journalists and television arrived. "No, no, I don't want to see anyone." Friends, relatives, relatives from Veneto arrived. There were no words, but Davide was no longer there.

"Please let me see him," I asked the hospital. "You can't until the magistrate's order." Finally, the order arrived and I could look at my son's face, with his eyes closed, with his rasta hair, motionless. "Darling, love, why? Why did you take the motorcycle? Wasn't it there, didn't you have the car? Why?" Before the funeral, for two evenings the oratory of the town of Monte Marenzo was crowded with young people and people praying, talking, giving a last farewell to the two young men. On Tuesday, July 12, the funeral was held. Maybe a thousand people? I don't know, there were so many. The mayor decided to declare the city in mourning. My heart broke when I saw the coffin carried on shoulders to the cemetery and disappear inside the niche, closed with cement.

I always say: half of my heart lives for Alessandro, but half of my heart is buried. For days and days, I stared at the empty chair at the table set at home, and for days and days I cried, prayed. But I had to be strong because my husband and Alessandro were down and I had to be strong for them. My husband Gianmarco one afternoon vented with all the desperation of a suffering man and said "Why me? What have I done wrong to deserve this? God has punished me." And there I was comforting him but at the same time I was in difficulty seeing him in those conditions. Then, he made a decision. He would get tattoos on his body to exorcise the pain. And so he did. He got quite a few, because he said the more he suffered the better he felt. Time passed and one day I had an idea. Write a book in memory of Davide.

I had many writings from my youth and also more recent ones. I decided to put them all together in a collection of poems and stories. When I started putting together the drafts it seemed that an invisible hand was guiding me to facilitate the work. And in a few weeks, I put together the draft of the book. I called the publisher, made an agreement, and the book was born with the title "The Seed Under the Snow". I presented it to the public on July 9, 2019, with a crowd of people. I also linked it to a fundraiser for an association that works for Africa.

Night

Night that encloses great sorrow

Night that breaks your heart

Roar of engines on the asphalt

Voices chasing each other from above.

Our help was in vain

Everything stopped in a minute

I feel my life shattering

Under the tepid rays of the moon

I wish to tell you many words

But the sun is already rising

Beyond the hill your destiny

Screams and cries in the morning

I wish to give you my hand again

But you are already too far away

I believe that life is a mystery

With a destiny too real

I want to remember you with your smile

Inside a window of Paradise

And the life that breaks on earth

Will continue in heaven with tenderness

This thing gave me a new light in my soul. I had done something in memory of Davide. Davide would not be forgotten. So much was the enthusiasm that from there also started the idea of an association that promoted social, cultural initiatives, and good life for the village. I called it Il Germoglio del Monte, The Sprout of the Mountain. It is still active. I had received so much in terms of affection and solidarity from the villagers that I had touched the heart of the village, Monte Marenzo, and I promised myself that, as long as I could, my gratitude towards them would be great.

But my story does not end here. Despite these initiatives and activities, it happened that for a period I was bad, I always cried. Perhaps I had held on too much not to worry my husband who was already ill himself. So, advised by my doctor, I went to the psychologist and went through a process of reworking the grief. I had questions inside my soul that I couldn't answer, I felt guilty. This psychologist helped me untangle the knot of pain and find serenity.

Now I live my life first of all for me, for my son Alessandro, for my husband Gianmarco, and in constant memory of my son Davide. The sad moments cannot pass completely, but the things I do fill me with satisfaction and joy and that is what counts.

I hope my story can be useful to someone. Getting help is my advice, do not close up in pain otherwise it's over. I am a believer and my prayer helps me feel in communion with my son Davide.

Yet the wind still blows... Despite everything.

Anna Maria

Anna Maria's story shows us how strong the human spirit can be in facing deep sadness and tough times. Her life's journey, from the beautiful fields of Italy to dealing with great loss and then finding a way to heal and contribute, proves how resilient we all can be. We'd love to hear your stories about amazing mothers. Share tales of their victories, perseverance, or changes they've made. Your stories can give others hope and support. Please post them in the comments or send them to us via the link ‘Share Your Story’.

With heartfelt regards,

S.A. Sterling