Alright, let’s talk about writing that letter to my mom. It wasn’t something I just woke up and decided to do easily. It had been brewing for a long time. Just this weight, you know? Stuff left unsaid, misunderstandings maybe, and just a whole lot of tangled feelings that talking face-to-face never seemed to untangle.
So, one afternoon, I just grabbed some paper and a pen. No fancy stationery, just a regular notebook. And I sat there. For a long while, actually. Staring at the blank page. It’s surprisingly hard to start. Like, where do you even begin with years of… everything?
Getting the thoughts down
I decided I wasn’t going to try and make it perfect or poetic. That wasn’t the point. The point was to be honest, really honest. So I just started writing down whatever came into my head.
- Some difficult memories, things that had hurt. Didn’t want to dwell, but had to acknowledge them.
- Things I was genuinely sorry for. Times I knew I’d been a pain, or hadn’t understood her side of things.
- Loads of appreciation, stuff I often forgot to say out loud. Simple things, really. Her being there. Her little habits that used to annoy me but now felt… important.
- Tried to explain my side of certain things, not to make excuses, but just to offer my perspective.
It wasn’t easy. My handwriting got messy. I had to stop a few times because it felt pretty raw. It’s weird how writing things down makes them feel more real, somehow. I didn’t filter much, just let it flow. Scribbled things out, added stuff in the margins. It looked like a mess, honestly.
The actual writing and ‘sending’
I think I spent a good hour or two just pouring it all out. Didn’t re-read it too much right away, figured I’d mess with it if I did. It wasn’t about crafting the perfect message, it was about getting the feelings onto the page.
Then came the tricky part: how to give it to her? Handing it over felt way too intense. Like putting us both on the spot. I thought about mailing it, but that felt impersonal. In the end, I just left it on her kitchen table one morning before I left. Somewhere she’d find it when she was alone, could read it in her own time, process it without me hovering.
Afterwards? Felt strange. Like holding your breath and finally letting it out. A bit nerve-wracking, wondering how it would land. But also lighter. Like I’d finally tidied up a really messy room in my head. Didn’t fix everything overnight, of course, but it felt like a necessary step. Just getting it out there, you know?
