Hey everyone,
I never thought I’d be sharing something so personal on here. But sometimes, you just need an outlet, and maybe, just maybe, someone else out there can relate.
It all started with a shoebox.
Last weekend, while cleaning out the attic, I stumbled upon a dusty old shoebox tucked away in the corner. It was the kind of box that seemed to have its own gravity, pulling you towards it with a compelling whisper of forgotten stories. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just hoping to declutter and make space, but when I opened it, I found a collection of letters—handwritten, delicate, some a little crumpled at the edges.
They were from my mother, who passed away when I was 14. I always knew she was a writer in her own right, though she never published anything. Her real job was motherhood and making ends meet, and in my mind, she’d become a combination of the two, a figure so larger-than-life yet so distant in detail.
Reading through the letters, something strange happened. They weren’t addressed to me; they were addressed to a ‘Jamie,’ a name that was decidedly not mine. At first, confusion clouded my thoughts. Why would mom write letters to someone else and keep them hidden away? But the more I read, the clearer the picture became. Jamie was a name she used for me in her writings, a future version of myself that she envisioned—one who was braver, more accomplished, happier even.
Her words painted a portrait of a person who bore my resemblance but wore none of my insecurities. In her letters, she spoke of battles fought and won, of dreams chased with vigor, of nights spent in contentment under a canopy of stars. She wrote of love, of forgiving oneself, of finding beauty in the cracks of a broken past.
I couldn’t help but cry. Tears streamed down my face as I sat there on the dusty attic floor. It was as if I was meeting a part of myself that I had long forgotten, a self that had once existed only in my mother’s dreams.
But these letters didn’t just speak of an idealized version of me. They held a mirror to my own soul, reflecting imperfections with grace and understanding. It was as if she saw through time, knew the battles I would face, and had left these letters to guide and comfort me.
My mother had always been my silent cheerleader, her love steadfast but often obscured by the busyness of life. And here it was, poured into ink and paper, a lifetime worth of love and hope.
I spent the whole afternoon reading her words, letting them fill the empty spaces within me. Each letter was a puzzle piece, revealing not just who she hoped I’d become, but who I had the power to be.
Over the next few days, I felt different, as if those letters had unlocked a part of me I’d kept under wraps for too long. I started writing again—something I hadn’t done since she passed. I wrote about anything and everything, letting the words flow without judgment. I felt her presence in every stroke of the pen, a quiet encouragement to keep rediscovering myself.
I also picked up an old photo of her and placed it on my desk. It sits there now, a reminder—and yes, sometimes a challenge—to live up to the ‘Jamie’ she saw in her dreams.
So here I am, sharing this with all of you, strangers and friends alike, because sometimes we need to be reminded of who we can be. These letters were a gift, a tether to the past, and a bridge to a future I so desperately want to build.
Thanks for listening.
Love,
Your not-so-perfect ‘Jamie’ 💌