A Letter I Never Sent to My Mother.

I found it yesterday, tucked away in a journal I had abandoned halfway through my sophomore year of college. A yellowing sheet of notebook paper, folded twice and stained at the corners. I recognized the handwriting instantly—mine. The ink had faded in places, but the words still held the weight they did when I first scribbled them down, late one night, in the silence of a dorm room three hundred miles from home.

It was a letter. One I never sent. One I wrote for my mother.


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Dear Mom,

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to give you this. Maybe that’s why I’m writing it now, in this quiet moment when the world feels far away and I can almost convince myself that I’m brave.

I’m not writing to blame you. I want to start there. I need to. Because for a long time, I think I did blame you—for the silences, for the looks, for the way you always seemed to hold your breath when I walked into a room wearing something too different, too bold, too... me.

You always said you wanted what was best for me. I believe that. But your version of “best” never seemed to include who I actually was. I spent years trying to contort myself into the daughter I thought you wanted: quieter, neater, smaller. I wore the clothes you picked, went to the schools you dreamed of, even dated the boys you smiled at during church. And the whole time, I was disappearing.

Do you remember that summer after junior year of high school, when I cut my hair short? You didn’t speak to me for three days. Not really. You said you were just surprised, that it would take getting used to. But the way you looked at me—like I had ruined something—you didn’t have to say more.

That was the summer I fell in love for the first time. With a girl named Leigh.

I never told you that. I wonder if you guessed. You met her once, called her “that artsy friend of yours,” and never asked about her again.

There’s so much I’ve never said to you. So many truths I kept locked away because I was afraid of what your face might look like when you heard them. Afraid of your silence. Afraid of losing the one person I still desperately wanted to love me exactly as I was.

But I’m tired of being afraid, Mom. I’m tired of measuring my words, of shrinking myself to fit into the mold of the daughter you imagined. I’m gay. And I’m still me. Still the girl who makes too much tea when she’s anxious, who cries during sad commercials, who loves thunderstorms and old bookstores and the way you hum when you cook.

I’m not asking for a grand speech or perfect acceptance. I just want you to see me. Really see me.

I love you. That’s why this hurts so much.

—Your daughter,

Emily


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I folded the letter back up after reading it. My hands trembled slightly, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the draft creeping through the window or the emotions pressing against my ribs.

I never did send it. I never even told her.

Two years after I wrote that letter, Mom passed away. A sudden stroke, unexpected and cruel. We hadn’t spoken in three weeks—nothing more than a few exchanged voicemails and a forwarded recipe.

I wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if I had sent the letter. If I had given her the chance to understand me. Maybe she wouldn’t have accepted me right away. Maybe she never would have. But at least the silence between us would’ve been filled with truth, instead of a performance.

Now, all I have is the letter and the memories. And a hope—a quiet, stubborn hope—that somewhere, somehow, she knows. And maybe, just maybe, she still hums when she cooks.