Remembering Martha Stahlmann
November 13, 1934 – October 11, 2026
I’ve discovered that writing about my mother is much harder than I ever anticipated. How do you put into words a lifetime of memories, love, sacrifice, and strength? How do you capture the essence of someone who was such an important part of your life?
What can I tell you about my mom?
She was the calm to the storm that was my father and me. She was our steady presence, our foundation, and, for me, my everything growing up.
Whatever she did, she gave it 200 percent. Whether it was cooking, baking, playing ball with me, teaching me how to ride a bike, or taking me to accordion lessons, she was completely invested. Nothing was ever done halfway when it came to her family.
Growing up as a first-generation American, with German as my first language, wasn’t always easy. Being different sometimes made me a target for teasing and bullying. And as an only child in a traditional German household, my world revolved around my parents, particularly my mother.
My father worked hard, and by the time he came home, he was often exhausted. With their age difference and a precocious child who always had something to say or do, I wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to deal with at the end of a long day.
So Mom became the person who somehow juggled everything: work, the household, my father, and me. She was the one who kept all the balls in the air, seemingly without ever missing a beat.
But to understand who my mother was, you have to understand where she came from.
Mom was born on November 13, 1934, into a world that was about to change dramatically. She and her eldest sister were born in the same city, yet one had a Russian birth certificate and the other a Polish one. That alone tells you something about the uncertainty of the world into which she was born.
With the outbreak of World War II and Hitler calling ethnic Germans back to Germany, her family was uprooted. They traveled by horse and cart, leaving behind what they knew and relocating to an unfamiliar place without family connections or a support system.
Her mother was left to establish a household and raise eight children while waiting for her husband to return from the war. Mom’s eldest brother never made it home. Thankfully, her father did.
I think about what that must have been like for a young girl. The uncertainty, the displacement, the loss, and the responsibility that came with simply surviving. Those experiences undoubtedly shaped the woman she would become.
Under the German school system of the time, Mom completed the eighth grade and went to work for a farmer. Higher education wasn’t an option, but that never stopped her from learning, growing, or finding ways to improve her circumstances.
Years later, she and her eldest sister made the courageous decision to leave Germany for Canada in search of a better life. They hoped not only to build something for themselves but also to earn enough money to help support their family back home.
And that’s exactly what Mom did. For years, she sent money back to Germany.
She attended night school to learn English and trained to become a comptometer operator, building a career in a new country and a new language. It was another example of her determination to make the most of whatever opportunities life presented.
It was in Canada that she met my father, and they married in March of 1960.
Eventually, through the sponsorship of one of Mom’s aunts, they immigrated to the United States, settling in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
Not long after, Mom was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. On the advice of her doctor, they sought a drier, high-altitude climate, which brought them to Colorado Springs.
And Colorado Springs became home.
Her first job here was with the County Assessor’s Office. She later joined Williams Chevrolet, now Mike Maroone Chevrolet, working in the payroll department. She remained with the company for 30 years.
That kind of loyalty and dedication was simply who she was.
Mom and Dad built a life here, surrounded by a wonderful community of friends, many of whom remained part of their lives for decades. She loved the life they had created and never took it for granted.
But life wasn’t finished testing her strength.
When my father passed away in 2020, the world was also entering the uncertainty of COVID. During that already difficult time, Mom was diagnosed with melanoma.
And once again, she found herself facing a battle that would have overwhelmed most people.
She underwent three surgeries in an attempt to remove the cancer, followed by a year and a half of immunotherapy and radiation. With a Stage IV diagnosis and survival odds we were told were only 10 to 25 percent, the outlook was anything but encouraging.
But Mom wasn’t one to surrender.
She fought. Quietly, stubbornly, and with the same determination that had carried her through every other challenge in her life.
And she beat it.
Her oncologist called her a walking miracle.
For those of us who knew her, perhaps that wasn’t entirely surprising. This was a woman who had spent her entire life overcoming the odds, never asking for recognition and never making a fuss about what she had accomplished.
Unfortunately, while she was fighting cancer, we began to notice other changes.
The woman who could follow any recipe, manage the household, and balance her checkbook to the penny began having trouble with tasks that had once come so naturally. Following instructions in sequence became difficult. Simple math became a challenge.
After consulting with a neurologist, Mom was diagnosed with dementia.
The last three and a half years were difficult in ways I could never have imagined.
Watching someone you love slowly lose the abilities that once defined so much of who they were is heartbreaking.
For Mom, baking was more than a hobby. It was one of her love languages. She showed her affection through the things she made, the meals she prepared, and the care she put into every detail. Watching her lose that ability was especially painful.
Then came the gradual loss of language.
At first, it was just a word here or there. Eventually, over the last year and a half, she developed a language entirely her own.
I wish I could say it was some wonderful combination of German and English, two languages that had been part of her life for so long. But sadly, it wasn’t.
The words were there in her mind, but they could no longer find their way out.
Two years ago, we moved Mom into a memory care community. It was a difficult decision, but it allowed us to spend more time simply being with her, rather than trying to manage every aspect of her daily care.
Either my husband or I visited her most days.
And through it all, one thing never changed.
She always knew who we were.
I like to tease my husband that he became the favorite son she never had. Every time he walked into the room, her eyes would light up, and the biggest smile would spread across her face.
Of course, she smiled when she saw me, too. But with me, there was always something more. I could see that she had something she desperately wanted to tell me. Something important, something she needed me to know.
And as hard as she tried, those words never quite made it to my ears.
That may have been one of the hardest parts of all.
But even when the words were gone, the love wasn’t.
It was still there in her eyes, her smile, and the way she responded to the people who meant the most to her.
And while there are so many serious things I could say about Mom, I would be doing her a disservice if I didn’t share a little humor.
Because my mother could be unintentionally hilarious.
When I think about the woman my mother was, the phrase that comes to mind is quiet fierceness.
She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t boastful. She didn’t need to be the center of attention or tell everyone what she had accomplished.
But when something needed to be done, when a problem needed to be solved, or when someone she loved needed her, she had an incredible ability to move the needle.
She was strong, driven, resilient, and fiercely devoted to the people she cared about.
She survived war and displacement as a child. She left her homeland to build a better future. She learned a new language, established a career, raised a family, endured chronic illness, lost her husband, and fought a cancer diagnosis that few expected her to survive.
And through it all, she remained this small, unassuming woman who never seemed to think her story was particularly extraordinary.
But it was.
If you sat down with Mom and took the time to ask about her life, the stories would begin to unfold. And with each one, you realized just how much history, courage, sacrifice, and determination were contained within this one remarkable woman.
She never needed the world to know what she had accomplished.
She simply lived her life, loved her family, worked hard, cared for her friends, and kept moving forward.
And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson she leaves behind.
Strength doesn’t always announce itself. Courage doesn’t always look heroic. And love isn’t always expressed in grand gestures.
Sometimes strength is a mother holding a family together. Courage is a young woman boarding a ship for a country she’s never seen. And love is a homemade cake, a bike ride, a trip to accordion lessons, or simply being there every single day.
My mother was all of those things.
I know how fortunate I was to have her, and I know how much of who I am today is because of her.
I will miss her cooking, her stories, her laughter, her determination, and even those moments when she couldn’t quite find the right English word.
Most of all, I will miss knowing she was there.
For so much of my life, she was my constant. My safe place. My biggest supporter.
She was my everything growing up. And in so many ways, she always will be.
Martha Stahlmann passed away on October 11, 2026, just one month shy of her 92nd birthday.
She is survived by her sister, Erna Schreiner, and brother, Walter Hermann, both of Germany; her daughter, Martinna Stahlmann-Hill; and family, Bobby Hill and Taryn Hill.
She lived an extraordinary life, even if she never saw it that way.
And I couldn’t be prouder to call her my mother.
I love you, Mom. And thank you for everything.
A visitation will be held on Tuesday, October 20, 2026, at 12:00 p.m., with a funeral service at 1:00 p.m. all at Shrine of Remembrance “America the Beautiful” Chapel, 1730 E. Fountain Blvd. Burial will follow at 2:00 p.m. at Evergreen Cemetery, 1005 Hancock Expy.