Dear Mother, There Is Something I Never Said

A son's letter of love, grief, understanding, and the freedom that comes from finally speaking the truth.

This poem carries a heavier weight than most of my writing. It reflects on a wound that many of us carry in different forms, and one that shaped part of my own life.

As you read this poem, I hope you will resist the urge to choose sides. Neither pity me nor condemn my parents. Simply accompany me as I revisit an old wound and help the child within me understand what he could not see at the time.

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Dear Mother,

You are not the most special woman in the world.

But to me, you are, and you always will be.

Your love, your sacrifices, your devotion have shaped my life.
Your corrections and teachings still guide my steps.

In my kingdom, you are the queen.
In my heart, your place is unshakable.
My first love, an irreplaceable pillar.
Your presence flows through me like blood through my veins.

You showed me the way.
Your image became the foundation of my choices.
The love of my dreams feels possible
Because you achieved what once seemed impossible.

And yet, my heart carries complaints.
The child within me brings forth his grievances.

You were never perfect—far from it.
And truthfully, we were never very close.

You were never a bad parent.
I saw your love all the time.
Your worries, your fears for us.
My brothers and I were always protected beneath your watchful eye.

But…

what did you expect the child in me to feel
When I discovered that you wanted a daughter,
Not another son?

You never hid it.
You said it openly.

Often repeating that if you had had a daughter first,
You would never have had another child.

How did you expect the child in me to respond?

My heart never knew what to do with that.
Perhaps that explains the distance between us.

You loved me deeply.
I saw it.
I knew it.

But knowing it was never the issue.

Was your love born from guilt?

My heart choses to believe in your sincerity.

Mother,
I hold nothing against your preferences.
You too have the freedom to be yourself.

What I condemn, perhaps, is your ignorance.
Your parental clumsiness.
Your carelessness.

I do not believe you wanted to hurt me.
I do not believe you meant to cause me pain.

You simply did not know.

And if you did not know,
How can I condemn you?

Yet every time you told that story,
Life lost a little more of its color.

My heart became emptier.
More distant.
More detached.

I was broken.

My confidence was taken from me.

I lived trying not to be a burden.
In silence,
I settled for merely existing.

There were other mistakes.
Perhaps I could find other complaints.
But they feel insignificant in my heart.

Nothing compares to this one.

Know this, Mother:

I have grown.

Today, the adult can see
What the child could never understand.

I am healing.
I am finding my way back to myself.

Oh Mother,
My love for you is undeniable,
Deep,
Sincere,
Beyond comparison.

I never condemned you then,
And I never will.

The child simply needed to speak.
To tell his truth.

To finally let go.

To finally

be

free.

December 2025

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🪞 Mirror Question

What is a wound from your childhood that feels different when you look at it through the eyes of the adult you have become?

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Author’s Note

There are words we do not write because we have something to teach, but because we need to breathe.

Like a deep breath after holding our head underwater for too long, some words are not lessons or wisdom. They are simply a form of release. A form of clarity.

I grew up in a particular family. I cannot complain about a lack of love. I was loved, and I still am. Yet I carried wounds that were born within that same family for many years.

After reading Stillness Is the Key, Ryan Holiday’s invitation to heal the child within stayed with me. These letters were born from that invitation.

I don’t think I could sit in front of my parents and say these words out loud. And even if I spoke them with all the tenderness in the world, I am not sure they would understand them as I intend them.

They would understand the meaning of the words. What I fear they might not understand is the intention behind them. A misunderstanding could create the very distance I hope to heal.

So I write.

Writing gives me a place where I can sit with each member of my family and have the conversations I never learned how to have. It helps me clarify, reassure the child within me, and finally tell him:

“You have been heard, my friend. We can move forward now.”

These letters are not accusations. They were not born from hatred. From anger, perhaps.

But never from hatred.

I love my family deeply. And I know they love me too.

What follows is not an attempt to judge them. It is simply part of my journey toward understanding, healing, and peace.

On Wednesday, I will share the first reflection accompanying this poem. Together, we will explore how childhood wounds can exist even in the presence of love, and how looking at them through the eyes of an adult can sometimes bring a little more clarity to the child we once were.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.