Hey everyone,
I’ve never been one to open up too much, especially not on social media, but I feel like it’s time to share something deeply personal, something that has been stirring inside me since it came up unexpectedly a few weeks ago. Maybe by putting it out here, it will help me understand it better and maybe it will resonate with some of you.
Last month, while helping my mom sort through old boxes in our attic, I stumbled upon a faded green journal. I recognized it instantly as my grandmother’s, the one she was never without during my childhood. Grandma’s soft-spoken wisdom and warm laughter were like a soothing balm, and seeing her journal brought back an avalanche of memories.
Some of you might know that I adored my grandmother. She had a kind of grace and strength that seemed unshakeable. When she passed away when I was fifteen, it left a void in my life that I never really filled. I couldn’t bring myself to open the journal while my mom was there, so I slipped it into my bag and decided I’d look through it later, in private.
That night, I sat on my bed, the journal in my lap. The pages were filled with her delicate handwriting, each word a footprint of her thoughts and feelings. I read through entries about her garden, baking recipes, snippets of poetry she loved. But what caught my attention was an entry dated just a few months before she passed away.
Her words were raw and honest. It was about a day we spent together, a day I remember vividly. We had gone to the park, and I was struggling with school and feeling out of place. I remember telling her how I didn’t feel like I belonged, how everything seemed hard and confusing. She had just smiled and told me that feeling lost was just a part of finding oneself.
But in that journal entry, she admitted to feeling that same sense of not belonging. She wrote about her struggles, the self-doubt she had carried all her life, and how she often felt like an imposter. It stunned me. To know that someone so composed and wise faced the same inner turmoil was… it was humbling.
I kept reading her reflections on life – how she felt torn between the roles she was expected to play and her own desires. She had dreams of studying art, of traveling, of writing a book. Dreams she never pursued because life took her down different paths. And yet, in her words, there was no bitterness, only acceptance and a gentle hope that I might find the courage she wished she had.
I realized then, that the personal truth hidden all these years wasn’t just about her. It was about me too – this belief that I had to have it all figured out, that uncertainty equaled inadequacy. But recognizing that my grandmother, the woman I idolized, faced these same feelings too… it was as if a weight lifted off my shoulders.
I’ve spent years trying to live up to an ideal, thinking I was the only one faltering, only to find out that I was never alone in this. Her journal was my unexpected mirror.
Since then, I’ve embraced my own uncertainties. I started doodling again, like I used to when I was a kid, letting my imagination spill onto blank pages. I’ve reached out to friends I lost touch with, opening up about my fears and dreams, fostering deeper connections.
It’s amazing how a hidden truth can unfold into a journey of self-discovery. I’m learning to be kinder to myself, to accept that it’s okay not to have all the answers. My grandmother’s journal taught me that life is a series of unspoken truths, and acknowledging them is the first step towards understanding them.
I wanted to share this because maybe some of you are wrestling with your own hidden truths. Maybe you feel lost too. But remember, it’s okay to not have everything figured out. Sometimes, the answers come from the most unexpected places.
Thank you for reading, and for letting me share this part of my journey.
With love,
Alex