This is a confession I never thought I’d write, not here, on a platform so public yet so personal. My fingers tremble as I type, not from fear but a nervous anticipation of what sharing this might bring. For years, I’ve carried a question that I didn’t have the courage to answer. It’s strange how small things can unravel the biggest parts of your life, how one seemingly inconsequential item could shine a light on a truth I had hidden even from myself.
It all started last weekend, while sorting through my parents’ attic. Dusty boxes, full of forgotten pieces of our family history, surrounded me. Among them was one box that caught my attention—not because it looked different, but because it had my name on it, written in my mother’s delicate script. Curiosity piqued, I opened it slowly, as one would open a gift.
Inside, I found some old drawings I had done in elementary school, a few photographs, and, tucked away at the bottom, a worn-out journal. It was mine, but I barely remembered it. The leather cover was cracked and faded, the pages yellowing at the edges. Yet, it was heavy with the weight of forgotten words. I flipped to a random page and began to read.
Hello future me.
I’m writing this, hoping that one day you’ll find it and remember what was, what I was.
The words were mine, written at twelve years old, but they felt foreign, as if reading someone else’s thoughts, someone else’s secrets. Flipping through the pages, I stumbled upon an entry that made my breath catch.
March 12, 2005
I miss her, the mom I used to know. She doesn’t laugh like she used to, and when she looks at me, it’s like she’s looking at something far away. Dad says she’s just busy, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s because of me.
I was stunned. My younger self had seen more than I gave her credit for. She had seen through the smiles and the hurried reassurances. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as memories, long buried, resurfaced. I remembered the hushed arguments, the tension that filled the house like an uninvited guest. Yet, as a child, I had internalized her distance as my fault.
Choking back a sob, I continued reading, driven by a need to understand.
April 10, 2005
I heard Dad asking Mom if she could try harder for me, but she walked away. Why doesn’t she love me like she used to? Am I bad?
The tears fell freely now. How heartbreaking, to realize I had carried this belief for years, carrying the shadow of unworthiness without even realizing it. I closed the journal, clutching it to my chest, and let the silence of the attic surround me.
That night, I called my father. It was a difficult conversation, one punctuated by long pauses and halting attempts to articulate memories that had shaped us both.
“Dad, did Mom love me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course she did,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “She had her struggles, things she never fully shared with us. But her love for you, even if it sometimes didn’t show in ways you needed, was always there.”
Hearing those words felt like a balm on my aching soul. I realized that I had been holding onto a narrative that wasn’t the whole truth. My mother, complex and flawed, had carried her own burdens—ones that had cast long shadows on her ability to connect.
In the days that followed, I allowed myself to grieve the loss of what I thought I had—a mother unencumbered by her own struggles, and the child I was once—believing I was unloved. But with grief came acceptance and a profound sense of clarity.
I am not unworthy of love. My past doesn’t define my future.
Today, I went back to that attic, retrieved the journal, and placed it on my bookshelf. It stands as a testament to the child I was, to the struggles I’ve endured, and to the growth I’ve embraced. Sharing this here isn’t just for me—it’s for anyone who needs to hear that their past doesn’t have to dictate their present. We are all worthy of love and understanding.
As I close this chapter, I look to the future with hope. I am rewriting my story, one where love, forgiveness, and self-worth are central. And it all started with a dusty old journal and the whispers of a child’s forgotten words.