Hey everyone,
I’ve been quiet for a while, reflecting on something I stumbled upon — something that changed everything I thought I knew. I’m sharing it here because I need to speak my truth aloud, to acknowledge it, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll touch someone else who feels lost.
Last month, while helping my mom pack up her old house, I opened a box marked ‘attic’. It was dusty and sealed with layers of packing tape that seemed untouched for years. Inside, I found an array of family relics: faded photographs, some letters, and an old wool sweater that still held the scent of my dad’s cologne. At the bottom of the box was a small, nondescript notebook, its pages yellowed with age.
Curious, I started flipping through it. It was my dad’s journal.
Now, it’s important to know that my dad passed away when I was just eight. My memories of him have always been a mix of my own experiences and stories told by my mom and older brother. To me, he’s always been this larger-than-life figure who we lost too soon.
The first pages were filled with mundane notes — reminders, grocery lists, plans for family trips. But then, I found a section where his handwriting changed. It became more fluid, expressive, like he was pouring his heart onto the paper.
I realized I was reading entries from a few years before his death, and each word pulled me deeper into my father’s life than I had ever been.
In one entry, he wrote about a family outing to the lake, describing the day with such vivid detail — the sunlight catching on the water, my laughter as he tossed me into the air. But as I read on, the entries took a turn, revealing something I never expected.
He talked about his struggles — not with his health, as I had assumed from stories, but with a profound, aching sadness. He wrote about feeling like a shadow of himself, trying to keep the brightness alive for us, but always battling this invisible weight.
As I sat there in the attic, surrounded by the ghosts of our past, tears streamed down my face. My dad had been suffering from depression, a truth that had been hidden from us — hidden from me.
I remembered the quiet afternoons when he’d retreat to his study, the moments he’d stare out the window lost in thought. As a child, I never questioned these. I just saw him as strong, infallible.
In those pages, I found my father’s humanity. He wasn’t just my hero; he was a man, trying his best despite his own battles. This revelation shook me, but it also brought a strange sense of comfort. I realized that even though he struggled, his love for us never wavered.
With each entry, my view of him shifted from an untouchable hero to a beautifully flawed person, doing his best in a world that often felt heavy. I saw my own struggles in his words, and for the first time, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t before.
When I showed the journal to my mom, her eyes welled up. She knew about his depression but had chosen to shield us from it, hoping to preserve our father’s image as a fearless protector. She admitted that in her attempt to preserve his legacy, she’d missed sharing the most human part of him with us.
This discovery has been a journey. It’s taught me that truth, even when painful, is a gift. It allows us to connect deeper, love harder, and forgive ourselves for the times we can’t be perfect. I now look at my own struggles differently, understanding that it’s okay to be vulnerable, to ask for help. It’s taught me that strength isn’t the absence of fear or sadness, but the courage to confront them.
So, that’s my truth. I wanted to share it here because life is too short to live behind a mask. Our stories, in their rawest form, have the power to heal. If you’re reading this and are carrying a hidden truth, know you’re not alone. It’s okay to let it out.
Thanks for letting me share.
Love,
[Your Name]
