Hey everyone, I’ve been hesitant about sharing this for a long time, but after years of keeping it close, I thought it was time to let it go. I think I owe it to myself, and maybe to some of you who have been in similar shoes.
A few weeks ago, while cleaning out my mom’s attic, I found a small wooden box tucked away in a dusty corner. It was old, with scratches that told stories of years gone by, and it caught my attention because of its peculiar lock, which was already ajar. Curiosity piqued, I opened it, expecting to find trinkets or forgotten jewelry. Instead, I found letters. Lots of them.
The letters were all addressed to me, written in my mother’s elegant cursive handwriting. I thought I had read every word she had ever written to me, yet these were new, at least to me. Each letter was dated, spanning a decade of my childhood and adolescence.
The first one I took out was from my tenth birthday. I remember that birthday vividly. It was the year I got my first bicycle, and Dad taught me to ride it. In the letter, Mom wrote about how proud she was of me, not because of how fast I learned to balance, but for the sheer determination I showed. She described moments I had forgotten, tiny victories and stumbles.
Reading through these letters was like opening a time capsule, diving back into moments of my life seen through my mother’s loving eyes. There were letters about my first day at school, the time I broke my arm, and the day I left for college. She wrote about her hopes and dreams for me, and more importantly, about the life lessons she hoped I’d learn.
But the letter that truly shook me was dated a week before my high school graduation. In it, Mom confessed something I had never known — something I think she never intended to tell me. She wrote about her struggle with depression, how she had fought hard to ensure it never affected our relationship, and how much she loved me despite her battles.
“I want you to know,” she wrote, “that even in my darkest moments, your smile brought light to my life. I may not have always shown it, but you were my anchor, my reason to fight.”
I sat there in the attic, surrounded by dust and forgotten things, crying — sobbing, really. I always knew my mom was strong, but I had no idea how resilient she had been, nor how deeply she cared to protect me from her own demons. The realization hit me hard; I had spent so many years thinking she was just strict or unreasonably anxious at times. I had no idea she was waging a war inside.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve wrestled with this new truth. It has changed how I remember her, how I see my childhood, and, most importantly, how I see myself. I understand now that my drive, my perseverance, isn’t solely my own. It’s a gift from her, a piece of her strength that she instilled in me.
Maybe she never meant for me to read those letters, to know her struggles. But it’s brought me closer to her, even though she’s no longer here. It’s a strange, bittersweet comfort to know that in every way that mattered, she was with me, as much as I was with her.
If you’re reading this, I hope you reach out to your loved ones, ask questions, and know that sometimes, the quietest objects hold the loudest truths. Remember to cherish those silences, for they often hold the most profound connections.
Thank you for letting me share this. It feels like a weight has been lifted, and I can finally breathe freely.