Last month was Sue Trainor's birthday. She would have been 57.

She passed away when she was 51 though.

On September 18, 2013, she was in an accident. No goodbyes. Just a vague phone call, a terrifying uber ride home, and the single-worst conversation I'll ever have.

Sue was the most important person in my life. (Those that knew her won't feel too bad for my dad having heard that.)

Those that know me, know I’m a pretty closed book. Sue was the only one who got through. I knew who I was underneath the masks and behind the walls, and so did she.

Then in an instant it was just me.

Now, I know that's a tough way to start a post, but it brightens up a bit.

See, it feels like Sue is still with me—in a way that I absolutely would have scoffed at six years ago.

I am (or at least I was) cynical to the point of being a dick. And I still don't believe in psychics or horoscopes. But there's a realness to this...Sue-feeling that I have to acknowledge.

I'll try to explain.

Whenever I ask myself, "what would Sue think of this?" I get her response—pretty loud and clear in my head. I know the usual voice in my head can take on a number of different tones—some self-critical, some cocky, some depressed, some excited—but this one is a little different. And it's not always a cliché motherly coddling—sometimes it calls me on my shit. Sometimes it's just proud of me.

And when I hear this voice, a little flow of energy runs through me. It's sort of like a shiver, but it's not bad; just surprising. Maybe it's similar to what those ASMR fans get from the sound of crinkled candy bar wrappers (no clue what that's about). It’s just this strange feeling that starts in the back of my head and branches out from there.

That's all when I mentally ask for her thoughts.

If I need a bit more love or support, I turn to one of the pictures I keep of her—I have a good one of her and I at my university graduation—or I reach out to the small collection of her ashes I've kept.

Then it's not just a shiver.

It's like a full ghost hug. This blanket made of warmth and love and protection and "it's all-OK-ness" gets thrown over me.

And if anyone out there has had a good Sue hug—or danced with her or took one of her spin classes or just had a good chat—you might have noticed that Sue had her own energy. There might be an unforgettable Sue-signature attached to that experience.

And that signature is in these hugs. I feel it clear as if she were here in person. It nearly brings me to tears every time.

So is my mom a ghost? Is she looking down on us?

I don't know and I don't care.

Sue is still here in a way that is far more real than I ever would have thought possible. That's all I care about.

Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe Sue left me with so many memories—so many experiences with her own signature—that my brain remade a mini-version of her that now lives somewhere up there. When I call for it, my brain finds the Sue-file and presents it to me.

If that's the case, holy shit; good on you, brain. That's some powerful wizardry you have going on up there.

It really doesn't matter what's going on.

I still miss her every day, but this Sue-energy/ghost/angel/imagination helps, and I’m incredibly grateful it showed up in spite of how big a dick I can be about those things.

Anyway, love you, mom.