I wrote this letter in my head more times than I can count.
Sometimes while lying awake at night.
Sometimes while washing dishes.
Sometimes when I saw other people laughing with their mothers in public and felt that familiar tightening in my chest.
I always told myself I would write it tomorrow.
When things felt calmer.
When I had the right words.
When I wasn’t so angry, or so tired, or so afraid of what it might stir up.
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became next year.
And now… there is no one left to give it to.
My mother was not perfect — neither was I
People like to romanticize mothers after they’re gone.
But the truth is harder than that.
My mother was human.
She made mistakes.
She said things she probably shouldn’t have.
She loved in ways that didn’t always feel gentle.
And I—
I was stubborn.
Proud.
Certain that silence was safer than honesty.
We hurt each other quietly.
No shouting matches.
No dramatic fallouts.
Just long stretches of distance filled with unsaid words.
I convinced myself that as long as we were technically still in each other’s lives, there was no urgency.
I was wrong.
The letter I kept postponing
The letter was never meant to accuse her.
It wasn’t a list of everything she did wrong.
It was simpler than that.
It was going to say:
- I know you tried.
- I know life hardened you before I ever could.
- I forgive you for the things you didn’t know how to give.
- And I’m sorry for the ways I pulled away instead of pulling closer.
I wanted her to know that even when I sounded cold, I still needed her.
Even when I didn’t call, I still thought of her.
Even when I acted strong, I still wanted to be held.
But saying those things out loud felt… dangerous.
What if she misunderstood?
What if she brushed it off?
What if she didn’t respond the way I imagined?
So I stayed quiet.
Silence felt safer than vulnerability
Silence doesn’t risk rejection.
Silence doesn’t crack open old wounds.
Silence lets you pretend there’s still time.
I told myself:
“I’ll write her when I’m more settled.”
“When I’m less emotional.”
“When I’ve figured myself out.”
I didn’t realize that time doesn’t wait for emotional readiness.
Life doesn’t pause until you feel brave.
The last conversation we had
Our last conversation was ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
We talked about small things.
Things that didn’t matter.
Things I don’t even remember clearly now.
I almost told her that day.
I remember feeling the words rise in my throat — heavy, urgent, real.
But I swallowed them.
There would be another call.
Another visit.
Another chance.
There wasn’t.
The call that changed everything
When I got the call, my first reaction wasn’t grief.
It was disbelief.
My second reaction wasn’t tears.
It was panic.
Because suddenly every unsent word, every postponed truth, every delayed apology came rushing forward all at once.
And there was nowhere for them to go.
No address.
No voicemail.
No “later.”
Just silence.
Permanent, unforgiving silence.
Grief isn’t just missing someone — it’s remembering what you never said
People talk about grief as missing someone’s presence.
But there’s another kind that doesn’t get discussed enough.
It’s grieving the conversations you never had.
The softness you never allowed yourself to show.
The love that stayed trapped behind pride and fear.
I didn’t just lose my mother.
I lost the version of myself that might have been brave enough to tell her the truth.
I still write the letter — but it has nowhere to go
Sometimes I still write it.
Not on paper — in my head, in fragments, in quiet moments.
I imagine her sitting across from me, listening the way she used to when she was tired but attentive.
I imagine her nodding.
Maybe crying.
Maybe saying nothing at all.
And then reality settles back in.
This letter will never be read.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t wait for the perfect moment
I used to think words needed perfect timing.
Now I know better.
Love doesn’t need perfect phrasing.
Apologies don’t need flawless delivery.
Truth doesn’t need rehearsals.
It just needs to be said before it’s too late.
This is the letter, even if it arrives too late
If she could hear me now, this is what I’d say:
I loved you in ways I didn’t know how to express.
I needed you even when I acted like I didn’t.
I’m sorry I chose silence when honesty was what mattered most.
And I hope you knew — somehow — that my distance was never the absence of love.
If you’re reading this and still have time
This is not advice.
It’s a confession.
But if there is someone in your life whose words you’ve been postponing —
a mother, a father, a partner, a friend —
Don’t wait for the letter to become a memory.
Say it while you can.
