Hey everyone, I never thought I’d be sharing something this personal on here, but it feels like the right place and the right time. Maybe it’s the anonymity or the supportive community, but here goes nothing.
Last weekend, I was cleaning out the attic, a chore that seemed to grow with each passing year. I expected the usual—a couple of Christmas decorations, my childhood toys, and those high school yearbooks I can’t quite let go of. But, tucked away in a dusty corner, I found an old notebook. It was my mother’s.
For those who don’t know, my mother passed away when I was just ten. All these years, I held onto fragmented memories of her, like the feel of her hands as she braided my hair, her laughter echoing through our kitchen, and the scent of lavender that seemed to follow her everywhere.
This dusty notebook was filled with her handwriting—an elegant script I recognized instantly. I flipped through the pages, each filled with poems and letters. As I read, it became clear this was more than just random musings. It was a reflection of her inner world, one she had hidden all too well.
In the beginning, her words were joyful, filled with hope and dreams. There were doodles in the margins of flowers and stars, signs of a whimsical spirit. But as I went deeper, the tone shifted. Her words grew heavier, laden with unspoken fears and regrets.
One entry, dated just a few months before she died, caught me entirely off-guard. Her words were raw, filled with a vulnerability I’d never associated with her strength. She wrote about her battle with depression, a fight she concealed behind her vibrant smile. She spoke about the struggle to hold everything together for us—her family.
My heart ached as I absorbed her pain, pain she never shared, not even with those she loved the most. I always imagined her life as perfect, like a storybook. But here were her truths, laid bare in a faded notebook.
After reading, I sat in the attic for hours, hugging the notebook as though it were her. Realization washed over me—my mother was so much more than the memories I held. She was a complex, flawed individual, just like anyone else, managing her silent battles.
This discovery opened a floodgate of emotions. In her vulnerability, I found strength. I understood her in a way I never had before, which came with a powerful sense of connection and forgiveness—both for her and for myself.
Her struggles were not mine to inherit, yet knowing about them offered clarity. I’ve spent years battling my own shadows, thinking I had to hide them, just like she did. But reading her words made me realize I wasn’t alone—that it’s okay to not be okay sometimes.
I’ve decided to embrace openness, to share my own battles in hopes of breaking the cycle of silence. This confession is my first step towards healing and acceptance—accepting her as she was, and myself as I am.
Thank you for reading and for being part of this journey. I hope that, if nothing else, this inspires others to find strength in vulnerability. Love to you all 💜.