Because You See Me – A Love Letter to Mom (or to Myself?)

Love that sees me –

sometimes I don't know exactly who I'm writing this letter to. To you who brought me into the world? To myself – the child in me that still wants to be seen? Maybe both. Maybe I'll write to you - and at the same time to what wants to be healed in me. Because this text begins where love and longing touch each other.

You saw me. In moments when I was still invisible. In my defiance, in my shyness, in my irrepressible curiosity. I don't remember all the details - but I do know that I felt somehow whole around you. Or was that the wish?

Sometimes I feel the warmth of your hand without it being there. Sometimes it's missing. Sometimes I even miss it when you sit next to me. And then I ask myself: How much of what I miss is an echo? How much of this is an answer to what I don't trust myself to give?

Between reflection and longing

For a long time I believed that love had to be loud. Visible. Shiny like in the Mother's Day commercials. But over the years I have learned that real love is often quiet. That it doesn't always show itself in words, but sometimes in looks, in a glass of water by the bed, in knowing when not to say anything.

Maybe you didn't always understand me - but you felt me. And maybe sometimes being seen isn't as loud as we thought. But just being quietly understood. And maybe today I feel that it is time to see myself. Not just through your eyes, but with my own gaze. A loving one. Someone who forgives mistakes. Who also embraces chaos.

Motherly love and self-acceptance

What I learned from you – or wanted to learn – is not just caring. It is the principle that someone stays. That someone is there when you fall. Maybe today I can be the one who stays. For me. Maybe it starts right here - the inner strength that I've been looking for on the outside for so long.

There are days when I wish there had been more of you. More closeness. More softness. And at the same time I know: you too only gave what you could. And sometimes that was a lot. And sometimes too little. But it was real. And maybe sometimes it's enough to know: we were both looking. Each in their own way.

Today I don’t want to idealize you – or myself either. I want the picture to be composed of light and shadow. From closeness and disappointment. From expectations that we couldn't fulfill - and from moments when everything was just right.

If I hold myself today

Then it's not just consolation. There is a silent promise. That I no longer have to doubt love - no matter where it comes from. That I can be a home for myself. That I can hold on when no one else will.

You taught me what connection means. And I'm still learning to live it with myself. It's a way. Not a straight one. But a real one. And perhaps that is the most beautiful form of motherly love: the one that stays, even when no one is there anymore.

So thank you. For everything that was. For everything that wasn't. And for what I can be for myself today.

And if you're reading this - maybe it's a start for you too.

And I'm learning that love doesn't go away - it changes. And sometimes it returns as self-compassion.

In love,

- I.