Hey everyone. I never thought I’d be writing this post, but I need to get something off my chest that’s been weighing me down for what feels like a lifetime. Maybe it’s so I can move on, or maybe it’s just time for me to finally speak my truth. Whatever it is, thank you in advance for listening.
Last weekend, while cleaning out the attic, I stumbled upon a box that I didn’t recognize. It was tucked away under old blankets, dust-laden and forgotten. It felt like finding a time capsule that had been waiting for me. Inside, I found letters—letters my mother had written but never sent. They were addressed to me, drafted in her careful handwriting, spanning years I thought I knew well.
I sat there in the dim attic light, surrounded by the smell of aging paper and memories, as I opened the first letter. It was dated just after my parents decided to separate, a time when I was too young to grasp the full scope of their struggles. Her words undulated with love and regret, painting a picture of a woman torn between her duties and desires.
She spoke of a past I’d never imagined, of dreams left behind in the pursuit of security and how she hoped I’d chase mine with everything she didn’t allow herself. Her love was always palpable, but her words revealed a depth of sacrifice I never truly understood.
With each letter, her voice seemed to grow richer, more nuanced. I could almost hear her voice quiver through the paper. One letter, in particular, stood out. She recounted a day I remembered vividly—the winter we spent snowed in, just the two of us. I remember it as a day of laughter and games, a day she taught me to make hot chocolate from scratch. But her letter added layers I hadn’t known; to her, it was a day she’d faced her own demons, deciding to give us both a day of grace and joy before facing the realities of their divorce.
It was an unexpected window into her heart, and it shifted something inside me. As I read each letter, I cried, mourning not just her struggles, but the time I didn’t know to cherish because I was oblivious to her inner battles.
I spent hours in that attic, reading, crying, and reconnecting with a mother I thought I knew. It was all so quiet, so still, yet with each revelation, I felt the world shift around me. Her words became a beacon, guiding me to understand the full spectrum of who she was, beyond the simple roles of mother, wife, or woman.
By the time I finished reading, I felt a strange mix of grief and gratitude. Grief for what she silently endured, gratitude for the strength she imparted to me, often unspoken, in moments we shared. I realized, slowly, that her silence was never from a lack of love, but from a desire to protect me from her own heartaches.
It’s been days since I found those letters, and I think I’m beginning to understand what they mean to me, what she wanted me to see. I’ve been holding onto a version of her shaped by my own perceptions, and now I’m humbled by the complexity of her spirit.
I want to share this with you because I think there’s power in recognizing the full humanity of those we love, in understanding that everyone carries burdens we might not see. My mother’s letters were a gift I didn’t know I needed—a silent whisper from the past urging me to live fully and love deeply.
For anyone who’s still reading, thank you for sticking with me. For those who have lost their way or feel disconnected from family, I hope you find your own quiet revelations, your own paths to understanding and healing.
Sending love to all, and hoping you hold your loved ones a little closer tonight.
