Hey everyone. I think it’s time I share a little more of me — or rather a part of me that I’ve only just started to uncover myself. It’s something that has been sitting quietly in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to come into the light. Strange, isn’t it, how life sometimes reveals its secrets through the simplest things.
It all began about two weeks ago when I was cleaning out my attic. You know, with the changing seasons, I thought it would be a good idea to sort out the old to make space for the new. I came across a box labeled ‘Jen – Summer 2008’. That summer was pivotal; it was the summer before my senior year of college, full of plans, dreams, and youthful fervor. I hadn’t opened this box in years, not since I hastily packed it away right before graduation.
Inside, I found the usual suspects: old college notebooks, a few t-shirts, and an odd assortment of trinkets. But at the very bottom was a small, delicate journal. Not mine, but my mother’s. She had given it to me that summer to hold onto, saying she’d feel better if it was in my care. I had entirely forgotten about it.
As I flipped through the pages, I felt a peculiar pull. My mother’s handwriting, so familiar yet distant, danced across the pages. At first, it was mundane – shopping lists, reminders to call Aunt Beth, notes about Dad’s medication. But then, tucked between the everyday, were entries from a woman I barely knew.
‘July 15, 2008,’ one entry began, ‘Jen’s growing up so fast. Sometimes I don’t recognize the woman she’s becoming. I’m proud, but terrified. What if she faces the same doubts, the same fears I’ve always concealed?’
My heart skipped a beat, a flutter of recognition and unease. Could my mother’s fears mirror my own?
I continued reading, the words drawing me deeper into her world. Each entry was an echo of conversations we never had. Her struggles with identity, her fears of inadequacy, and her dreams of a life she felt was slipping away. These were things we never spoke about; I only ever knew my mother as my rock, my unwavering pillar of strength.
As I sat there, under the dim light filtering through an attic window, I realized I had been denying myself the vulnerability I saw in her words. I, too, had fears I never voiced, dreams I never chased because I was scared they would unravel me. All these years, I had been living a life that I thought was mine but was layered with unspoken expectations and borrowed dreams.
I reached out to her the next day. Over coffee, I brought up the journal, unsure of how she would react. Her eyes widened at first, then softened as though she had been waiting for this moment too. ‘I wanted you to know,’ she said quietly, ‘but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to burden you with my struggles.’
We spoke for hours about the things we had both left unsaid. She shared how it was sometimes easier to write her thoughts than to say them aloud, how there were days she felt like a stranger in her own life but kept pushing through for the sake of family. I finally shared my secrets — my hesitations, my unfulfilled wishes, my fears that were like ghosts haunting the edges of my dreams.
This discovery brought us closer, allowing us to acknowledge the imperfections in our lives that somehow made us whole. We started a tradition of writing letters to each other. Not emails, not texts, but letters — tangible, thoughtful pieces of communication that allowed us to reflect, to process, and to truly see each other.
I suppose this is my confession: I have spent years hiding behind a facade of certainty, never daring to look too closely at the cracks in my own reflection. But through my mother’s words, I have learned the power of vulnerability and the strength in admitting you’re not always okay.
I am grateful for that dusty old attic box. A simple act of cleaning led to an unexpected discovery, transforming a hidden journal into a bridge between my mother and me. It’s like we are finally stepping out of our own shadows, together.
Thanks for reading, and maybe, take a moment to look through your own forgotten corners. You never know what truth you might uncover.