Hey everyone, I’ve been sitting on this for a while now, and I need to share it here because social media is the unlikely place where I feel I can finally be heard without interruption. So here goes—my confession, a piece of me I’m ready to reflect on and let go.
Last weekend, as I was cleaning out the attic—an annual tradition I’d put off the past few years—an unexpected memory resurfaced. Stuck between boxes of forgotten winter clothes and dusty, old trinkets was a small, wooden chest. I had no recollection of ever seeing it, which was odd because I thought I knew everything in that attic like the back of my hand.
I hesitated for a moment, tracing the intricate carvings on its surface with my fingertips, their patterns somehow familiar but not fully recognized. With a deep breath, I opened the chest. Inside, there were letters—dozens of them, tied with a faded blue ribbon.
They were addressed to my mother.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the return address. They were from someone I’d never heard of—a woman named Eliza. I hesitated before gently slipping the ribbon off and opening the first letter.
“Dear Laura, I’ve been thinking about you every day. I hope the world is treating you kindly, as you deserve,” it began. I paused, a gentle ache blooming in my chest. Eliza’s words were tender, intimate. I couldn’t help but feel like an intruder.
As I read through the letters, the truth began to unravel. My mother and Eliza shared a bond that was deeper and more profound than anything I could have imagined. Eliza’s words painted a portrait of love, companionship, and shared dreams that spanned years.
It wasn’t until I reached a letter dated just a year before my mother’s passing that I understood. “Remember, my dearest Laura, love is not a thing of shame but a lighthouse in the storm,” Eliza had written. It was then that I realized the depth of my mother’s secret—she had loved Eliza, deeply and truly.
I sat there, surrounded by the dusty relics of a lifetime, tears slipping down my cheeks as I pieced together the parts of my mother’s life she never felt free to share. I thought of all the moments I could have known her better, understood her fully.
In that quiet attic, I felt her presence, not as my mother alone but as someone vibrant, hopeful, and human. I wished she’d felt she could tell me; I wished I could have been her confidant.
I spent the rest of the day in a reflective silence. The discovery didn’t change the past, but it shed light on the shadows I’d never noticed in our relationship. I realized that my mother had carried an immense weight—a love she couldn’t share openly.
The letters transformed from sorrowful secrets to precious gifts, offering me a piece of my mother I’d never known. I decided to cherish them, even if I couldn’t share them with her anymore.
So, why am I sharing this here? Because often, we hide parts of ourselves out of fear—fear of judgment, of loss. We tuck away truths, hoping they’ll fade, but they never do. Instead, they shape us in silence. I want to honor my mother by living authentically, without fear. I want to embrace the parts of myself I’ve kept hidden, to be open and honest, both with myself and with others.
If you’ve held parts of yourself back, let this be a nudge to let them see the light. You never know the freedom that might come with it. Thank you for listening.
