Hey everyone,
This is a bit more personal than what I usually share here, but it feels right to finally put this out there. For context, I’ve always thought of myself as someone who’s pretty self-aware. I’ve done the therapy sessions, journaled my heart out, and listened to more self-help podcasts than I’d like to admit. But sometimes, the most profound truths find you in the quiet moments, in the mundane aspects of life where you least expect them.
It all started with a simple task: cleaning out my mom’s attic. She had been after me for months to tackle the chaos up there. Boxes of old clothes, childhood toys, and stacks of forgotten photographs—our tangible history buried under layers of dust. As I worked my way through the labyrinth of memories, I found myself pausing at a box labeled in my mom’s neat handwriting: ‘Old Letters.’
I nearly skipped over it, thinking it was just full of cards and notes from people I barely remembered. But something pulled me back, a whisper in my mind, like an echo of a forgotten song. I opened the box and there it was—a small, blue envelope wedged between birthday cards and holiday greetings. It was addressed to me, from my dad, and it looked like it had been read a million times.
My dad passed away when I was ten, and he always seemed a bit of an enigma to me. I remember him as a loving father, but also a man lost in his thoughts, keeping pieces of himself tucked away from everyone. With trembling hands, I opened the letter. The ink was faded, but his familiar scrawl was unmistakable.
“Dearest Emma,” it began, “By the time you read this, you may be older than you are now, or perhaps you won’t even remember me much. But there’s something I need you to know. It’s about love, and fear, and the spaces in between.”
I sat on the dusty floor, the beams of afternoon light filtering through the small window, illuminating the words on the page. My heart pounded as I read on. He wrote about his fears, his struggles with depression—something I never fully understood back then. He talked about how he worried that his own sadness might eclipse the light he wanted to give me. But it was the last paragraph that made my breath catch.
“Emma, my love, the truth is, I never wanted you to carry the weight of my silence. I hope you find what brings you joy, what makes your heart sing. And I hope you know that even in my quietude, you were my everything.”
Tears blurred my vision as I sat there, the letter clutched to my chest. I realized that all these years, I had been living with a distorted shadow of my father. In my mind, he was both hero and distant figure, but this letter painted him as human—flawed and vulnerable, yet full of love.
The truth was, I had been afraid of becoming like him, afraid of the silent battles he fought. But as I sat there, a profound sense of clarity washed over me. My dad wasn’t his struggles; he was the love he left behind, the whispers of encouragement in his letter, the warmth of his hugs that I longed for even now.
I spent the next few days processing everything, but something shifted within me. The fear of silence, of inherited sadness, began to fade. My dad’s hidden truth became an invitation to embrace my own music, my own voice. I no longer wanted to live in fear of what I might have inherited but rather celebrate the love that was undeniably passed down.
So, here I am, sharing this with you all, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it resonates with someone out there. We all carry hidden truths, but they don’t have to define us. Sometimes, they’re the keys we need to unlock the parts of us that have been waiting to shine.
Thanks for reading, and for letting me share this part of my journey. Love to you all.
Emma
