I’ve never been one to pour my heart out on social media. I’m more of a silent observer, like watching life through the frame of my phone screen, without really stepping into it. But today, something shifted, and I feel compelled to share. Maybe it’s because I finally feel free. Maybe it’s because I hope my story might help someone else find their truth.
It started with an old journal — a plain, pocket-sized notebook with a worn-out cover, buried deep in a forgotten box in the attic. I found it during my annual, albeit reluctant, spring cleaning. My childhood home had this attic filled with things that my parents, and later I, never really had the heart to discard. Memories enclosed in novels with dog-eared pages, and toys that bore the wear and tear of nostalgia.
I almost bypassed the box entirely, dismissing it as another stash of dusty books and useless trinkets. But, perhaps on a whim, my fingers brushed against its surface, and a prickling sensation ran down my spine. It was the kind of feeling you get when something momentous is about to unfold. I unearthed the journal from beneath a faded quilt, and the moment I held it, it felt familiar — too familiar.
Opening it was like stepping into a parallel universe, one constructed from the fragments of my past. It was my mother’s journal. I recognized the slanted script, the same handwriting that penned my birthday cards until the year she passed away. Her entries were sporadic, not a daily diary, but more like scattered thoughts across a timeline I could just about piece together.
Reading those pages, I discovered so much more than I ever anticipated. My mother had been someone else before she was my mom — a dreamer, a poet, and, as I found out, a woman grappling with a truth she never voiced aloud. Amongst the poetry and musings about nature, there was one entry that hit me hardest.
“March 12, 1994. Today, I felt the weight of my silence. There’s a part of me that never came into the light, bound by fear of judgement, tethered by the expectations of those I love. I fell in love once, long ago, and the echoes of that love still haunt me.”
That entry was the beginning of my journey to understanding. When I reached the end of the journal, I sat there for hours, my mind whirling with questions and emotions I hadn’t expected to confront. My mother had loved someone else deeply, someone she felt she couldn’t be with because of societal expectations.
It turned my world upside down. The woman I thought I knew had lived with this secret all her life, and in doing so, taught me more in silence than she could have with words. Her love was a truth unspoken, a secret she held even after marrying my father and becoming a mother.
I spoke to my aunt — my mother’s sister — the only living person I thought might hold any answers. I needed to know more, to fill in the gaps that the journal left open. We sat over coffee, and I hesitantly broached the subject.
“Did Mom ever talk about someone she loved before Dad?” I asked, bracing myself for her reaction.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Your mother was… conflicted. She wanted to be true to herself, but she loved your father too, in a different way.”
“Why did she never tell us?” My voice cracked, and the weight of her hidden truth pressed down on me.
“She thought she’d spare you the confusion. But she always wanted you to be free, to be yourself. I think she left that journal for you, knowing you’d find it when you were ready.”
It was a revelation that shed light on so many things I didn’t understand before — her wistful smiles, the seemingly random, melancholic poems she’d recite, and her insistence on always being true to oneself.
What my mother never said became my clarity. It was a message from her to live authentically, to embrace love in all its forms, and not be shackled by fear or societal expectations.
I closed the journal, holding it to my chest as if embracing her one last time. In that moment, I felt a profound connection to her that transcended time and space — her courage whispered through the pages, urging me to embrace my own truths.
Since then, I’ve felt a lightness I hadn’t known before. I live more openly now, seeking the love and life I want without hesitation. I’ve even started my own journal, scribbling truths that might one day offer someone else a beacon of understanding.
So, here I am, sharing this story with the world, hoping to honor my mother’s untold love story and encourage others to seek their truths, even when they’re hidden in the most unexpected places.
