Hey everyone,
I never thought I would pour my heart out like this on social media, but I feel like I need to. Maybe some of you can relate, or maybe I just need to hear my own voice in this vast universe. For years, I lived with a truth hidden even from myself, and it took a small, unexpected thing to reveal it.
Last month, while cleaning out the attic, I stumbled upon an old, dusty box that had been forgotten over the years. It was tucked away in a corner, covered by layers of time and neglect. I didn’t recognize it at first, but something drew me to it. The cardboard was soft and fragile, as if the years had transformed it into something that would fall apart with a single touch. I opened it slowly, expecting to find nothing more than a collection of old knick-knacks, remnants of a past life.
Inside, I found letters. Dozens of them. Some were unopened, some read and folded neatly back into their envelopes. All were written in a familiar handwriting—my mother’s. My throat tightened immediately, and my hands trembled as I picked up the first letter. I hadn’t seen her handwriting in years; she passed away when I was just a teenager.
As I read the letters, I realized they were written to me and my brother, but never sent. They were stories of her life before us, her hopes and dreams, her fears and regrets. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions. I felt like I was meeting her all over again, but this time, as the woman she truly was and not just the mother I’d known.
There was one letter, in particular, that stopped me. It was dated just a few months before she passed. In it, she revealed something profound—that she had once loved someone else, deeply, before she met my father. There was no bitterness in her words, only a gentle acceptance of the choices she made. She wrote about how she carried that love with her, like a secret garden hidden in her heart.
I had always sensed something different about her, a quiet kind of sadness behind her eyes, but never understood it until now. That revelation hit me hard. It wasn’t the usual kind of heartbreak I’d read about or seen in movies. It was a soft, melancholic truth that made me rethink everything I knew about her.
Discussing this with my brother felt necessary. We met for coffee the next day, a quiet café where the scent of roasted beans mingled with the chatter of customers. I placed the letter in front of him, unable to speak at first. He looked up after reading, his eyes reflecting a similar turmoil.
“Did you know?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I had no idea,” he replied. “But it sounds like her, doesn’t it? Loving fiercely, but keeping it all inside.”
We sat in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. It was then that I realized something vital about love and life—it’s not always what we think it is. Love isn’t selfless or pure; it’s human, tangled in our flaws and shaped by our choices. And maybe, accepting that truth is a way to find peace.
I wish I could tell my mom that I understand now, that I’m no longer hurt by the things she couldn’t share, but grateful for the parts of her she did. This discovery was like finding an old, beautiful photograph, faded but full of life.
In the days that followed, I started writing letters of my own. To my mom, to my brother, even to myself. It’s my way of holding onto this newfound clarity. I want to capture the quiet moments before they slip away, like whispers in the wind.
Thank you for reading. I hope you find your truth too, in the small, unexpected corners of life.
Take care, everyone.