Just as trees begin to leaf, and California poppies dot the hillsides, the anniversary of my daughter’s death occurs. It’s been 34 years since Maya was declared brain dead on April 6, 1992. She was 19, a gifted young woman on the cusp of a bright future. This year, she would have celebrated her 54th birthday. How mind blowing is that?

Over the last three decades, I’ve learned to surf the waves of grief. What sustains me in those moments is “love in the trenches,” the kind that demands fortitude and commitment – not the easy breezy romantic ideal.

Weeks before she died, Maya thanked me for always being there for her.

“You never gave up on me, Mom,” she said, “Even when it got so hard.”

Then she squeezed my hand. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I describe this scene in Chapter 14 of my memoir Swimming with Maya.

Maya as a teen

In that moment, I felt the joy that comes when someone we love recognizes the hard work of loving. It cuts both ways – our love for them, their love for us. That’s what I mean by “love in the trenches.” Between mothers and daughters, that acknowledgement is special.

When I remember Maya’s sweet face, I think of the millions who miss dear faces of their own. Grief is universal because love is universal – grief is the price we pay for great love.

I’m living proof that with self-compassion, support, and time, grief softens. As we follow the paths mapped by our losses, we learn that grief is really love. The deeper the love, the deeper the grief. When I allow myself to fully feel my love for Maya, and to acknowledge the great privilege of being her mother, I fuel my forward movement.

I feel lucky to have watched her grow, to have heard her first words, and watched her first steps. At six years old, she was a dancing sprite, blond hair glistening in the sun, splashing in the Yuba River on a glorious summer afternoon. Her later self, brash and witty, made jokes at my expense. No one made me laugh like Maya did. And no one was better at pushing my buttons. Our conflicts were fierce, emblematic battles.

Thankfully, we made peace before she left for college. I’m grateful she lived long enough to show herself – and me – where her acting talents might take her. In Swimming with Maya, I write about those final months of her life when she aced her audition at UCLA and earned a place in their theater arts program as a community college transfer student.

A fall from a horse that left her in an irreversible coma happened while she was home on spring break. She left this earth blazing over us like a lightning strike.

I’ve always thought of myself as a kind person. But after Maya’s accident, I learned what true kindness is. A brain surgeon had just asked me if I would give my daughter’s vital organs to strangers. Doctors had just declared her brain dead and signed her death certificate. They were preparing to remove the machines keeping her heart beating and her lungs filled with air.

I was frozen with grief, paralyzed by anguish I thought I would never outlive. But I heard myself say “Yes!” to the doctor’s request.

In that moment I made a decision that would change my life forever, and radically alter the lives of countless others. Four people’s lives were saved, two people had their sight restored, and dozens benefitted from Maya’s bone and skin tissues which were processed and stored for burn victims and cancer patients. Through the miracle of donation and transplantation, families were kept whole, and people on the verge of death found new life and strength.

When Maya died, it would have been so easy to give up. But because I chose radical generosity in a moment of crisis, hope was reborn for our family, including my surviving daughter Meghan, then 11-years-old.

Our “gift of life” allowed us to navigate through grief knowing that a miracle had emerged from a tragedy. April is National Donate Life Month. Each year, I write about the importance of choosing to become an organ and tissue donor. I do this to honor Maya, to help others experience the miracle of donation, and to celebrate the recipients of our gift.

They received a second chance at life with a new heart, a new liver, or a new kidney. Maya’s corneas restored sight. And many more people received bone grafts and skin tissue. One decision in a moment of crisis keeps rippling into the future.

More than anything, my message is this: Love trumps grief. When you feel all the way to the bottom of your grief, love will be waiting. Embrace it! And if that seems too difficult, do something for others. An act of kindness can transform any situation, no matter how dire.

I hope you’ll sign a donor card and tell your loved ones about your decision. Visit the Donate Life America website to learn how at https://www.donatelife.net/register/.