Hey everyone,
I’ve never thought I’d be the type to post something so… personal, but here I am, feeling like I need to pour out the whirlwind that’s been brewing inside. I guess it starts with an old shoebox, one that I found buried deep in my closet a few weeks ago. I was on a mission to declutter — funny how the unassuming can hold the most profound stories.
I opened it expecting to find nothing more than forgotten trinkets. Instead, it was filled with letters, all addressed to me. The handwriting was my mother’s, instantly recognizable yet slightly unfamiliar after so many years. Every letter was like a whisper from the past, drawing me closer to an epoch of my life that I’d never truly understood until now.
I read the first letter, dated two weeks before my tenth birthday. It was simple, talking about how proud she was of my relentless curiosity, my indomitable spirit. Tears pricked my eyes, and I could almost smell her perfume, the gentle lavender scent that always seemed to linger in every room she entered.
The real revelation came with the last letter. It was dated five years after her death, a time when I was already grappling with my own teenage angst, feeling untethered and misunderstood. The words were different now, holding a weight that took my breath away. She wrote about her battle with mental illness, something she had never confessed to us, her family. She spoke of the silent struggles, the days she fought to get out of bed, the nights she feared her own thoughts more than anything else. My father, as it turned out, had known but kept it a secret, thinking it was for the best.
“I wanted nothing more than to shield you from my darkest moments,” she wrote. “But if you are reading this, it means life has led you here in its own way. Remember, you are never alone in the darkness.”
My hands trembled as I folded the letter back into its envelope, feeling an overwhelming mix of grief and understanding. All these years, I had been angry — angry at her sudden departure, angry at the world for snatching away my anchor. But now, I realized she had been battling storms of her own, silently and valiantly.
I spoke to Dad about it the next time I visited. Sitting at the kitchen table, I placed the letters in front of him. He sighed deeply, a touch of relief mixing with sadness in his eyes. “She wanted you to remember her for the light she brought, not the shadows she fought,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. That conversation, though heavy, was enlightening. It was as if a fog had lifted, revealing a path I needed to walk — one of empathy and acceptance.
So here I am, putting this out into the world. If you’re reading this, maybe you’re grappling with your own shadows or those of someone you love. Know that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is to simply hold on, to let understanding guide our hearts instead of resentment.
Discovering that box changed me. It opened my heart to patience and forgiveness, not just towards my mom, but towards myself. I can still remember her laughter as if she were in the room. I prefer to think of her that way now, focusing on her kindness, her love that endures even past the veil of time.
Thanks for letting me share a piece of my journey. Sometimes, it’s in these confessions that we find our true selves.
Love,
Sarah.