I am sorry, Mom

Dear Mom,

I hope this letter finds you well. I started out wanting to write just a few words months ago, but the more I sat with my thoughts, the more they poured out—turning into a long letter filled with emotion, sadness, and memories I’ve carried silently for so long.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately—about childhood, about who I used to be, and about who I’ve become. I look back at my early years with a strange mix of gratitude and grief. On the surface, I had everything: food on the table, clothes to wear, toys, and material things. I even had good friends and moments of joy. But deep inside, there was always something missing—something I didn’t have the words to explain back then.

What I didn’t have was connection. Love, yes, maybe in your way. But not the kind I needed. I didn’t feel seen, and I didn’t feel supported—not in the ways a child so deeply needs to grow into a whole person. And for a long time, I thought I was the problem. Maybe I was just too sensitive, or too emotional, or too dramatic for my own good. Now, as an adult, I’m starting to understand that the child I was had real needs that were unmet—and that those unmet needs left cracks that still ache today.

The change in me was slow, so slow that maybe even I didn’t notice it at first. I went from being that bright, bubbly, outgoing, hopeful child to someone who’s now cautious, introverted, and lost. It took me years to connect the dots—to realize that my anxiety, my self-doubt, and my tendency to shut people out didn’t come out of nowhere. They came from growing up without a real emotional home. And Mom… that still hurts to say. But it’s true.

I want to be fair. I know you loved me. I know you wanted the best for me. But sometimes, love alone isn’t enough. I needed to be understood; I needed to feel safe opening up to you. I wanted you to be my best friend, my confidante, my safe place. But I couldn’t come to you when I was hurting. I couldn’t tell you about the boys I liked, or the friendships that broke me, or how lost I felt in my own skin. Every time I imagined opening up, I’d feel this heavy fear that you wouldn’t understand—or worse, that you’d criticize, dismiss, or simply not hear me. That fear became my silence. And in that silence, I learned to carry things on my own.

I’m not writing this to blame you, Mom. I really mean that. I’m writing this to let go—to make peace with the past and with you. Because no matter how many years go by, there’s still that part of me—the little girl who just wanted to be held, seen, and heard—that aches when she thinks of you. I am crying now; it is so hard to write this.

Do you know how badly I wanted to tell you things? How many times did I sit in my room crying, wishing you would knock, sit beside me, and ask what was wrong—and truly stay to listen? I wanted to rip my heart out and show you the bruises, the cracks, and the parts that were screaming quietly for help. But you were always busy. Distracted. Stressed. Wrapped up in your own pain, maybe. I understand that now, but it doesn’t erase what I needed back then.

I remember when I turned 18 and left for college—that was when things really changed for me. I wanted so badly to study literature. I wanted to write, create, and pursue things that gave me a sense of fulfillment and vitality. But you didn’t understand that. You pushed me hard into something “practical,” something you thought would guarantee stability. And maybe you meant well, but it crushed me. I hated it. I hated every lecture, every assignment. I was surrounded by people who loved what they were learning while I slowly began to disappear inside myself.

That first year of college broke me. It was the beginning of my depression. At first it was just a fog—little moments of sadness, of feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. But then it became something deeper. I started hating myself. I blamed you for the path I was on, for not listening to what I truly wanted. I felt so alone, like I was sinking and no one noticed.

I remember once I tried to talk to you about how I felt. I tried to tell you I wasn’t okay, that I wanted to leave that college and start over somewhere else. But instead of hearing me, you cried. You made it about your disappointment, your sadness. I felt like I had to comfort you while I was the one breaking inside. And that messed me up more than I can explain. I stopped trying after that.

But here’s the truth I want you to know now—I forgive you. Not because everything’s okay, not because the past didn’t hurt. I forgive you because holding on to anger is too heavy. I forgive you because I believe that you did the best you could with what you had. And because I’ve come to learn that you, too, are a human being—shaped by your own wounds, raised by your own parents who maybe didn’t know how to love fully either.

Still, I want to say this clearly: I needed more from you. I needed presence, not just provision. I needed warmth, not just discipline. I needed comfort, not judgment. And even now, I sometimes look at the mothers of my friends—the ones they call just to chat with, the ones they visit with joy and ease—and I feel a little twinge of something I can’t quite name. A kind of grief for what we didn’t have. Maybe still don’t.

But I’m also learning to mother myself. To hold the little girl in me and say, “I see you. I’m proud of you. I love you.” And maybe that’s enough for now.

I’m sorry too, Mom. For the times I was cold. For the ways I shut down. For the distance I’ve kept, even when maybe you tried in your own way to bridge the gap. I know I haven’t been the easiest daughter. But I’m trying—to heal, to grow, to find peace.

I don’t know if this letter will change anything between us. Maybe you’ll read it and feel hurt. Maybe you’ll feel defensive like you used to. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll understand where I am coming from. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, really—to be understood by you.

With love,

Your daughter