Truth Be Told: Letters to My Loved Ones Series

them,

Someday when I'm gone from here, I want my children and loved ones to know just how much I loved them and not only that, but I want the whole world to know. Not just words, of course my actions as well.

My mother died suddenly when I was seven months pregnant with SJ (6, autism, loves donuts). I didn’t get a chance to tell her how much I really loved her. So, guess what... you get to read about Mama Lott right here (rapid blink).

You will also read a letter to my daughter, who lived with my mother for a time, to my oldest son, who is my middle child and often reserved because of his disability. My two eldest (daughter 21, the K-pop guru, son 18, Mr. Tech). Those letters will really take time. I was a young mom and there is a lot of pain there for all of us, so bear with me.

This letter though, this is SJ's and to be honest I feel somewhere down the road, maybe at graduation, God give me long life, I’ll write him another one. But for now, here it goes! (of course I cried... hush up).

To my beautiful boy,

You came to me right after I lost my mommy.

You were inside my tummy when they lowered her pearl and rose-pink box into the ground.

I remember thinking, How can I be a mommy to you without her nitpicking your eating, or criticizing my momming?

As much as those things frustrated me, they kept me grounded.

They reminded me I wasn’t doing it alone.

I was told I would never have children again— you became her last gift to me. It was a time of relationship uncertainty. He loves me, He loves me maybe? High risk pregnancy, you kicked like a linebacker.

But look at you now.

You’re here, still kicking. (Stomping your feet too.)

And we love every moment of being your mommy and daddy.

When you turned three, the meltdowns started.

Your speech was delayed.

The journey began.

We’ve been working every single day to give you the best quality of life possible.

I won’t lie—sometimes I grieve what could’ve been.

I hate that I do.

I question myself, wondering if I did something wrong.

And then the world piles on.

They judge us.

“He has no structure.”

“Oh, you’re a stay-at-home mom?”

I see it in their eyes—the assumption that I somehow made you this way.

That we’re exaggerating your diagnosis.

That Level 2 is just some label we made up to get by.

They don’t see the IEP meetings.

The ABA sessions.

The occupational therapy.

The speech therapy.

Every. Single. Week.

They don’t see how school drains you.

How we come home burnt out—

You from holding it together,

Us from advocating and managing and praying and trying.

So tired that romance isn’t even a topic in this house anymore.

But baby, through it all, we love you.

And oh, the joy you bring us.

Your laugh is medicine—it’s wild and sudden and contagious.

The way you line your toys up just so, like you're building a world where everything finally makes sense.

Your cuddles, when they come, are sacred.

You rest your head on my chest like you know my heartbeat was made to calm yours.

You make us slow down, see the beauty in repetition, the wonder in stillness.

You teach us what presence really means.

And of course—your food preferences!

Days filled with yogurt and cheese puffs, while meat and veggies get the firm “NO.”

You walk around saying, “Shaun want applesauce,” like it’s a mission statement.

And honestly, we’ve learned to find joy in that too.

We see your light.

And we know:

You are not broken.

You are brilliant.

You are not a burden.

You are a blessing.

You are not the end of anything—

You are the start of something holy.

And I wouldn’t trade you for anything.

Love,

Mommy <3

If this touched you...Share it with someone who needs to feel seen. To every parent walking this road: I see you. You’re not alone.

And don't forget to check out my other letters-V