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 inside me that still wants to be seen? Maybe to both. Perhaps I'm writing to you—and at the same time to what wants to heal within me. Because this text begins where love and longing intersect.

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

Sometimes I feel the warmth of your hand without it being there. Sometimes it's missing. Sometimes I miss it even when you're sitting next to me. And then I ask myself: How much of what I'm missing is an echo? How much of it is a response to what I don't dare give myself?

Between reflection and longing

For a long time, I believed love had to be loud. Visible. Shining like in Mother's Day commercials. But over the years, I've learned that true love is often quiet. That it doesn't always express itself in words, but sometimes in looks, in a glass of water by the bed, in knowing when to say nothing.

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

Motherly love and self-acceptance

What I learned from you—or wanted to learn—isn't just caring. It's the principle that someone stays. That someone is there when you fall. Perhaps today I can be the one who stays. For me. Perhaps it begins right here—the inner strength I've been searching for outside for so long.

There are days when I wish you'd been more. More closeness. More tenderness. 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 searching. Each in our own way.

Today, I don't want to idealize you—or myself. I want to piece together the picture from light and shadow. From closeness and disappointment. From expectations we couldn't fulfill—and from moments when everything was just right.

If I hug myself today

Then there's not just comfort. There's a silent promise. That I no longer have to doubt love – no matter where it comes from. That I can be my own home. That I can hold on to myself when no one else will.

You taught me what connection means. And I'm still learning to live it with myself. It's a path. Not a straight one. But a true one. And perhaps that's the most beautiful form of a mother's love: the one that remains, even when no one is left.

So thank you. For everything that was. For everything that wasn't. And for what I am allowed to 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 fade—it transforms. And sometimes it returns as self-compassion.

In love,

- I.