Hey everyone. It’s been a while since I shared something personal, but today feels like the right time to open up about something that’s been stirring inside me.
A week ago, while rummaging through my attic, I stumbled upon an old shoebox tucked away in the corner — you know, one of those boxes you completely forget about until you accidentally trip over it. Though hesitant, I took it downstairs. I had a feeling that it was filled with my grandmother’s belongings — she had passed away five years ago, and I hadn’t had the courage to sort through her things until now.
Inside the box, I found a collection of letters bound together with a faded red ribbon, letters my grandmother had written to me but never sent. Her handwriting was instantly recognizable — elegant, looping cursive that transported me straight back to my childhood. I could almost smell the lavender perfume she always wore.
As I pulled the first letter from the stack, I felt a knot forming in my stomach, a mix of anticipation and dread. For years, I had believed my grandma and I shared everything, that there were no secrets between us. But these letters were new to me, penned at different stages of my life.
The first one was dated my seventh birthday. She wrote about the joy I brought her as a ‘little wobbly dancer,’ twirling around the living room in my mom’s old dresses. Tears welled in my eyes as her words painted pictures of long-forgotten days. As I continued reading, each letter revealed more layers of my grandma’s thoughts, her quiet observations, her dreams not just for me but for herself.
One letter, in particular, stood out. It was dated during a summer I spent abroad in college, a year she had battled cancer in silence. My family shielded me from this truth, wanting me to focus on my studies, but in that faded ink, she wrote of her desire to call me each day, to hear my voice but refrained, not wanting to burden me. The raw honesty, the strength behind her words left me breathless. She mentioned finding solace in reading my emails aloud, imagining me narrating to her. She was grateful for the tiny updates about my life, and it helped her through the pain.
A quiet realization seeped in as I read the last lines — my grandma had hidden her struggles, her fears, to protect me, perhaps to protect our untainted image of each other. Her letters were a silent gift, capturing parts of her life she never shared, yet through them, she had managed to convey her deepest love.
In the days following, I found peace in these letters. I’ve reread them countless times, each word a balm over the ache of missing her. But more than that, they’ve opened my eyes to a simple truth: love often hides in silence, in unspoken sacrifices.
Her letters have taught me to be more open about my own emotions, to cherish the present, to speak my love loud enough not just to be heard, but felt. I wish I could have told her this in person, wish I had known sooner, but maybe this is the part where I grow, where I carry forward her legacy of love and quiet strength.
Thank you for reading, for sharing this space with me. It’s amazing how even in their absence, our loved ones continue to nurture us.