The following letters are responses to a prompt we shared. In the post we said, “This is an opportunity to say the things you’ve always wanted to but never have before. Don’t think of it as a story for us, think of it as a letter to her. If your letter is full of love and joy, that’s great. And if it’s not, that’s OK too. If you decide to share it with her, that’s up to you. Writing a letter can be a cathartic experience even if it’s never sent. If you’ve always wanted to say something to your mother but haven’t taken the opportunity, consider this your invitation.”
The letters have not been edited and they are listed here in the order they were received. Before reading them, understand that relationships with mothers span a wide spectrum and may not match your own experiences or expectations. Feel free to share your comments below but please be respectful.
I miss you momma. There is so much that has happened since you’ve left. I wish you were here to see us. You’d be so proud of dad, the girls and your baby bear. We’ve truly learned how to live like there’s no promise of tomorrow and to show up for each other in ways that matter. We have you to thank. Thank you for always encouraging me in whatever I did. Dad now does the same for us. Thank you for spending time with me going to new places. The girls and I continue those adventures. Thank you for teaching me what unconditional love is. Now I can show that to your baby bear. He is such a big boy now and we talk about you often. He reminds me of you by the way, he has a sweet tooth, is a social butterfly and wants to help everyone. That’s how I know you live on through us. Each of us carries a piece of you close in our heart. When we’re all together, I know you and brother are with us too. So, thank you momma. Thank you for giving us each other. I’ll miss you till I see you. I love you 4ever.
Dear Mama,
I wish I understood why you couldn’t stay. Why fear ruled you. Why you left me with the meanest man in the world, the one you yourself couldn’t stay with because of his cruelty.
Every Mother’s Day I am reminded of the pain of watching your flight pull away from the gate and take off while I stood next to him. Wondering when you’d come back, not knowing you never would. Everyone else moved on but I couldn’t. I turned five and you weren’t there. I started kindergarten and you weren’t there. I graduated college and you weren’t there. All the things your own father held you back from, I achieved. But I had to do them without you.
I know your own life, marred by pain and abuse, didn’t give you the strength you needed to stay, but I wish it had. I wish you’d had the strength to stay with us. To protect us from him. The strength that I am filled with now. People often remark on it. They say I’m the strongest person they know. But I am also in pain. The pain that overtook me when your plane took off never left me. The strength and pain walk hand in hand inside me.
I wish I didn’t know either.
Love,
Me
Dear Mom,
Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and stop you. Stop you from meeting dad on that riverboat. Stop you from marrying him. Let you run away like you wanted to. Sometimes I wish I didn’t exist so you could have been happier sooner.
I wish I could go back in time and encourage you to leave him while you still could. To take the money from the job you still had and start over. To go and live with your parents until you got on your feet.
I wish I could go back to high-school and tell you to leave him then. That we were getting older and would be ok. That you would be ok without him.
I wish I was able to be a kid. I wish I didn’t become the second parent to fill the hole that he left. Even when he was there.
I wish you were treated better by men. I wish there were men who fully chose you. Who didn’t keep you a secret. Who didn’t hide you. I wish I could go back in time and hold you and protect you from them.
I wish I had seen you this happy sooner. Happy without him. I see you, feel you getting older, and I wish you had more years of laughter and love. That you didn’t have to pour out love without love being poured into you.
I hope there is a version of you out there who turned the corner early and just passed him on the riverboat. Who glanced down just as he was glancing up. I hope there is a version of you out there who ran from that church, veil trailing behind her. A version who listened when her father said “you don’t have to do this.” I hope there’s a version of you who has been loved dearly for 28 years, by a man who loves you so gently and deeply and openly. I hope I know you in that universe, but maybe as your friend this time.
Even before you gave birth, you were a mother.
After she was born, you guided our family forward with positivity and joy.
We were so tired. Remember?
I don’t know how you did it.
I will always be grateful for the way you found new depths of patience day after day.
And then we did it all over again.
Some days are crazy, others are hilarious, but I know we wouldn’t want it any other way.
You deserve everything there is and more.
My Mother’s Day wish for you is a peaceful orca encounter off Point Defiance. You’ll be in a kayak, silently gliding through the water. You’ll hear something behind you that sounds like a gasp for air. But when you look back, all you’ll see are ripples seamlessly blending with lapping waves. Then, you’ll notice something moving under you. Rounded blotches of white give her away. An orca. Your dream. You’ll hold your breath, filling each second with excitement and tension. A black triangle will rise, cutting through the water, and then the whale will surface. Close enough to touch. She’ll take another breath, and just before descending, you’ll make eye contact and feel a connection. You’ll see her, and she’ll see you. And then, as quickly as she arrived, she’ll. And so will you. You’ll paddle back to shore, dry off, and come home. You’ll think about that moment every day for the rest of your life.
That’s what I wish for you, Peach.
Dear Mom,
I know you were so sick at the very end. I know you tried your hardest to be strong for us. But I want to let you know that it’s okay.
I’m over 30 years old now. When I was so young, 17, only a Junior in High School, I couldn’t fully express how much you meant to me. Losing a parent when you don’t even know who you are? Never getting to see milestones you haven’t even thought of yet.
I hear these horror stories of mothers starving, exploiting & hurting their children. I hear about mothers who do not want to be present in their own child’s life. I cannot understand those “mothers,” if you can even call them that… biological vessels, more like it.
You were a true mother. You never judged me. You never used phrases like “when you have children,” & you made sure I knew I did NOT need to be a mother myself to hold value. You always supported my artistic passions. You taught me how to speak and use my voice as a superpower. You somehow knew the perfect balance to make me strong and independent while also allowing me to be a kid.
But then you were taken from me. Breast cancer, the second time you got it, took you away.
I live now for your legacy, Maria. Grief is just love with nowhere to go, so I give the world all my love. Lord knows it needs it.
Dear Mom,
These words are difficult for me to write because I wish I could love you the way that I used to, and I wish you could love me the way you used to. You were such a wonderful mother to me growing up. Even with all of the trauma we endured together, you worked so hard to make sure I was surrounded by love and that I could freely express myself. But somewhere along the way when I became an adult, that expression became a challenge to you and I lost access to your softness and care. I admit that I was harsh at times as I challenged your political beliefs, but I think it was because I assumed I was safe in your love. We’re always meanest to the ones we love most and we take that love for granted sometimes. Now I no longer feel surrounded by your love, in fact it feels completely absent from you. But frankly, I don’t regret standing up for myself and my beliefs, especially seeing the world continue to unfold as it is. What I do regret is not inviting you in more and trying to get you to understand more softly. I don’t know if that would have changed things, but at least you wouldn’t be able to use my words against me. Most days I feel that I’ve lost you forever. Sometimes that feels positive and sometimes it feels negative. I guess time will tell.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom.
I don’t know how to say this without feeling like I’m doing it wrong, but that feeling alone kind of says everything. I’ve spent so much of my life questioning myself—every decision, every instinct—because in my head, I still hear your voice telling me it’s wrong, or that I should have gone through you first.
Because of that, I’ve struggled to build real self-worth. I don’t trust myself the way I want to. And it’s exhausting carrying that into adulthood.
I know you love my son so much, and I see that. But I’m also scared in a way I don’t know how to explain. I’m scared he’ll grow up feeling the way I did—unsure, second-guessing himself, wondering if he’s enough. That fear sits with me every day.
And then there’s me as a mom.
Happy Mother’s Day to me, too… even though I don’t always feel like a good one. I lose my patience. I get overwhelmed. I yell sometimes, and I carry guilt for that. But it’s never from a place of not loving him—it’s fear. Fear of repeating what hurt me. Fear of not being enough in a different way.
But I am trying. Every single day, I’m trying to give him something better.
And I hope that counts for something.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for being my mom. I wish you were still here and I miss you daily. I know you did the best you could as a single mom and I never got to tell you how proud I was of you. It’s been hard without you not having anyone to call when I have good or bad things going on. You’d always tell me a joke to cheer me up. Mother’s day is different without you and it hits hard knowing I can’t celebrate you in person but I do in your memory. I’ve made blown glass pieces and do things you liked such as having your favorite coffee and do scratch tickets. Still haven’t won big yet!! I’ll run away if I win! You were the best mom I could have ever had asked for, your smile/laugh was infectious. I see your smile on my face in the mirror and hear your laugh when I laugh! I wouldn’t be the person I am without you as my mom. I miss hearing your stories or how your day was! Or when you’d call me at the, a** crack of dawn to tell me you saw the moon on your way home from work! I can’t wait to see the dahlia garden in the park this year, I know they were your favorite so it’s where I go to see them! Thanks for being proud of me and accepting me for who I am.
Love you lots, K.
Mom,
You won’t read this, and that’s probably best. We haven’t spoken in ten months. I’m writing it for you, dear reader. In case your chest tightens on this holiday, as mine does. In case you wondered if you’d get a birthday card from your Mom this year, and were oddly validated by the disappointment of an empty mailbox. You aren’t alone. We’re going to be okay.
I had a mother whose love came stapled to a list of demands. I tried for a long time to be small enough, quiet enough, acceptable enough to earn a version of her that didn’t have conditions. I realized that version would never show up. Maybe you realized this too, and you’re also grieving a mother you never had.
There was a child inside me who had been waiting her whole life for someone to take care of her, and I was the only one left who could do it. I tell her she’s allowed to take up space, and laugh loudly at her own jokes. I tell her she’s beautiful, even if one ear sticks out farther than the other. I feed her really big bowls of pasta, and I threw out her scale. I apply her sunscreen, and read her books, and sometimes I even buy her dolls from the toy store. Being my mother is easy, and rewarding. It’s a shame the first one wasn’t up for the job.
Happy Mother’s Day to those who are raising themselves. Draw a homemade card, make yourself breakfast in bed, and buy yourself a heart-shaped necklace. You’re the Mom now. And you’re gonna nail it.
Happy Mothers Day!
I love you so much I wish better for you than having me. You had your whole life ahead of you part way through college when I came along. People lied and romanticized motherhood before you had a full experience of adulthood.
You loved me and did your best to give me everything. Because of this, I could never be honest about it not being enough. Never share what hurt since you were unable to fix it.
This has led to a pattern of silence, not sharing the hard stuff, (which is BAD and can lead to CPTSD). During my first year of college, following a sexual assault, I never gave anyone the chance to talk me into a romanticed version of our lives. I also wasn’t able to give anybody the chance to love and support me through it except 1 friend because the clinic required a ride home.
I am beyond horrified at dwindling abortion access across this country. Being born to an unprepared parent is traumatizing in a way that can’t easily be resolved. Unbelievable—I remember you at the age I am now but am so far from even imagining receiving one of these cards.
Dear Maman,
At the end of WWII, you met a bed-ridden young American at the hospital in Oran Algeria. His quiet wit caught your interest, and you two fell in love.
You waited months for a passport and permission to travel from Marseilles to New York City. There you reunited, travelled to his family in Chicago, married and began life together.
What were your emotions as you sailed away? You left everything and everyone you had ever known. Were you desperately in love? Were you desperate to leave the shattered remains of war? Did you almost turn back?
You were so brave.
These questions have never been asked because eighteen months after I was born, you died. Your body, weakened from the war years, held a virus.
You were twenty-three years old.
I have no memory of you. Except perhaps a chiaroscuro wisp of a warm presence leaning over my crib.
I was raised with much love by other family, and brought up in a religion that taught stories about guardian angels. I left those stories behind me years ago.
Yet here on the far side of seventy years, I gaze back. I want to believe that I have felt you with me all my life. That my young mom always watched over her girl.
Maman, I grew up okay. My life has been a good balance of joy and love, pain and sorrow.
But I forever mourn that which I never had. Je t’aime Maman.
Mama, I will always love you.
Because in my mind, you’re the goddess, you’re creator, you’re my Mother. You play in my head, like the world’s best song. And I wouldn’t ask for any other. Stay with me now, because we are gifts to one another and to this realm; and I love you. You are my hero. You are equal to all the galaxies and stars that are out there. You tell me that I am capable of the ability to accomplish the world. And for the first time, I feel it. You are my guide. My soulmate. My closest friend. You are my everything and existence all wrapped up in one warm and beautiful person. You have the sweetest soul. You and I? We’re too good for this world. But that’s why we wake up and try, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Because we do it for everyone; and everything that is worth fighting for. And THAT is what you embody. Truth. Right versus wrong. You are a brave, sweet, and honest, and beautiful and hardworking human being. My love for you and our relationship for me feels so emotionally alive, free, and expressive. Words cannot describe a better feeling than me being your son. I love you so much, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day 2026. Muah xoxo
Dear Mom,
You always wanted to be called “Mother” and signed your name that way. You had an idea of who I should be. Preppy. Prissy. Pump-wearing. None of it worked.
You know what I do with rules. I’m proud of getting expelled from Catholic school for pot smoking. Public school had the art classes that changed my life.
You met Dad in DC: handsome, smart and sharp-dressed. You thought you could change him through love and the sheer force of your will. He was an arrogant, bitter, damaged man.
I have questions. I remember Dad making fat jokes about you, normalizing it. We did it too. That must’ve hurt. I’m ashamed.
You had 1950’s ideas. “You’re a member of this family!” you’d yell, and I’d say, “if this is a job, can I quit?” We always had to do family activities. My father and brother are horrible. I hated the farce of it. After 9/11 I stopped going home for Christmas, saying I was afraid of airplanes.
Hard no to grad school and grandchildren, stop nagging!
When you got leukemia, I got a letter saying, surprise, I’d offered to be a bone marrow donor!
I never offered, but I did it, had 10 holes drilled in my lower back. It didn’t save you.
After you died, Dad tried to disinherit me, but couldn’t, due to how you’d set up the Trust! HA!
I didn’t save your life, but you saved mine.
Dear Mom –
I miss you every single day. When I was young, I remember you saying “I’m not your FRIEND, I’m your MOTHER!” But then, as I became an adult, you wanted me as a friend, and I resisted more than I wished I had. In the rearview mirror, I can see that you were really my most loyal friend – one who would never willingly leave nor betray me…except that day you threw my pink Keds in the garbage then dumped mashed potatoes on them because you thought they were “past their prime” and didn’t want to see me dig them out of the trash……again.
Now that you have been gone three years, I really feel the void in mine and Dad’s life. I’m lucky to have had such a wonderful Mom, because I know how rare that is.
I want to make a cross stitch piece listing all of your advice and funny sayings, but can’t figure out how to make “it’s colder than a witch’s tit” or “I brought you into this world; I can take you out” look presentable on canvas.
Thank you for everything Mom
Love, your Jenny bunk
Dear Mom,
I had a dream last night of you looking me dead in the eyes, telling me you were going to come back later to pick me up. And remember that boy born a day after me, his momma in labor down the hall? Boy who years later became Homecoming King? He died two years after you. Anyway, I dreamt he’d told me the same thing. Nice thought, having two chauffeurs volunteer to drive me up to glory.
I am thankful for your offer, as I can imagine it must have felt like a loathsome chore every time you were the presumed obligated party to fetch from appointments or activities, while weighed down with a trunk full of resentment, wishing you could’ve skipped past me and given birth to your boy. But I was born a third daughter, which kept you on hook, rolling the pregnancy dice to win the treasure of all Catholic treasures, a son. I am of course thankful for my younger brother. I just wish childbirth had not taken its toll on you. Such heavy obligation clung to your narrow shoulders and proportional hips.
I am resisting the notion that these dreams are prescient. I don’t feel ready. But I miss you. I recall one of the last evenings together. You in your recliner, happily watching Dancing With The Stars, and I imagine you now dancing with actual stars, and this makes me happy. See you later, or maybe soon?
Love, Daughter #3
On 3/28, I went from being a 38-year-old man to feeling like an eight-year-old kid again when I lost you. You were the glue that held our family together. Everyone loved your presence, especially your smile — and you could light up a room faster than anyone I’ve ever known, except me.
I wish we could have one more living-room concert and dance session to Always and Forever by Heatwave. Even though we always made fun of your catchphrase, “cuter,” we secretly loved it — and honestly, half of us say it without realizing it.
Thank you for inspiring me to pursue a career where I get to help people. I learned how to love others, show compassion, and care for every living being because of you. Thank you for sacrificing so much time and energy to give me and my siblings a better life. In the best possible way, you helped me grow up and mature at a young age.
When I came out to you on Mother’s Day, 20 years ago, you wholeheartedly accepted me without hesitation, and I’ll never stop being grateful for it. Sorry I made your Mother’s Day about me back then, and sorry for doing it again!
I’ll try to be strong for both of us as I learn to navigate everyday moments without you.
Thank you for being such a beautiful example of what a mother should be. Happy Mother’s Day, Madre.
Dear mom
I miss you. My Mother’s Day wish is one more day with you by my side. I would love to ask you all the questions I’ve thought of in the 18 years you’ve been gone. The questions about motherhood, balancing life, how to make a family recipe, advice on marriage and menopause and family health questions, time for you to share the deep conversations, the good the bad and the ugly. Some laughs and cries and then one more big hug goodbye. Until we meet again I love you.
I want to be a mother someday but I don’t think I ever will be. Not because I’m incapable. Because I am so terrified of hurting them the same ways you hurt me. I’m afraid I’m going to be too selfish or unstable. I’m terrified that I’ll snap one day and leave them feeling unwanted or unlovable. That they’ll believe I hate them. I’m terrified that I’ll do all of these things to them that you did to me… I’m so afraid that I won’t be able to be a consistent, healthy mother. That I’ll never be the kind of mother that all children want and need, nor the kind they deserve. And now, I don’t think I’ll ever allow myself to have children at all, even though most of me wants to.
You are the kindest person I’ve ever met. You have the patience of a cactus and the boundless love of a Fairy Godmother. The one time you ever cussed at me (and it was such a sweet little cuss), I felt bad that I had frustrated you to what felt like a ridiculous breaking point. I was a teenager and profanity took up a solid 40% of my vocabulary. The point was made, though.
The older I get the more I realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have a mother like you. I’ll never know the sacrifices you made for me and if I ever ask, I won’t be surprised if you said casually, “Oh, I didn’t sacrifice anything.” I have an enormous amount of respect for you and the lessons you imparted on me continue to help me even now.
You give without hesitation or regret and not an ounce of pretense. The way you live your life is inspiring and I want nothing more than to absorb all the wisdom you have to impart. Thank you for everything.
