Hey everyone, I’ve been thinking about sharing something, and I guess now is the time. It’s taken me years to get to this point—years of staring at something without truly seeing it. But life sometimes has a funny way of sneaking up on you, and suddenly, you’re faced with a truth you didn’t even know you were hiding from.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my parents’ attic. You know, one of those days where you finally find time to tackle the clutter that’s been waiting there for decades. It was a typical late summer afternoon, the light slipping quietly through the small window, dust particles dancing lazily in the beams. I was rummaging through old boxes, mostly filled with things I expected—holiday decorations, outdated clothes, and my old school books. But then I found something unexpected.
It was an old, leather-bound journal. I almost dismissed it as just another one of those random keepsakes we all have lying around, but it felt heavy in my hands, both physically and emotionally. As I opened it, my heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t mine; it was my brother’s.
My brother, Ethan, had always been the adventurous one. We lost him in a car accident when I was only fifteen. I remember the day clearly, the funeral, the emptiness that followed. But what I didn’t realize until now was how much of Ethan was still with me, hidden in plain sight.
The pages were full of sketches, lists, and notes. It was like stepping into his mind, seeing the world through his eyes. There were doodles of us playing in the backyard, of our dog, Luna, and scribbled plans for road trips he wanted to take. But there was one entry that caught my breath. It was just a simple note, written in his hurried scrawl: ‘Tell Mia she’s got the brightest soul.’
Mia. That was me.
I read that line over and over, the words blurring as tears filled my eyes. Why hadn’t he ever said it to my face? Or maybe he did, but I was too caught up in my teenage whirlwind to hear it. I sat there for what felt like hours, cradling that journal, tears falling onto the old, yellowing pages.
I think for years, I had been running from the grief, from the memory of Ethan. I buried it deep, thinking that was the way to heal, but all it did was create a void—a void I didn’t even realize was there until I read those words. In that moment, sitting in the dusty attic surrounded by forgotten relics of our past, I finally understood. The love he had for me was real, palpable, and it was something I had carried with me, unnoticed but deeply felt.
I wish I could have one more conversation with him, to tell him I see it now, that I feel it, and that I’ve always been carrying a piece of him with me. It’s strange how something so small, so seemingly insignificant, can shift your entire perspective on life.
Since that day, I’ve been making an effort to live more openly, to tell the people I love how much they mean to me, and to not let moments slip by unrecognized. I think that’s what Ethan would have wanted.
I guess I’m sharing this because maybe someone else needs to hear it too. Maybe you’re holding onto something or someone in a way that doesn’t serve you, or maybe there’s a truth you haven’t faced yet. Whatever it is, know that it’s okay. It’s okay to take your time. And when you’re ready, you’ll find that the truth, no matter how hidden, is never too far away.
Thank you for letting me share. I hope this reaches someone who needs it. Much love to you all.