A Letter from the Past: Guilt, Grief, and What We Leave Unsaid

Yesterday, I found a letter from Sana. Well, it was actually a birthday card she gave me when she was 13 years old. At that time, I was battling severe depression, and I had no recollection of this card until now. As I opened it and began reading, I was immediately struck by her words. She talked about how much she prayed to see my old self again—the happy, smiling version of me that seemed far removed from who I was during that difficult time. Sana was so young, but her card reflected a maturity and insight beyond her years. She didn’t just write about me, though. She also shared her own anxieties and fears, explaining what she was going through in a way that I only now truly understand. She expressed how much she loved me, how grateful she was for the support and love of our family. It was a window into her emotional and mental state at that time—one I wish I had looked through much earlier. After reading the card, a wave of guilt washed over me. I wish I had found it earlier so I could have asked her more about her feelings and fears. I wish I had been able to recognize what she was going through. As mothers, we play such a significant role in our children’s lives. They look to us as their guides, their mentors, their emotional anchor. But what happens when we are not able to fulfill that role? What happens when the person they need most is too lost in their own struggles? It’s on days like this, when the weight of my regrets and guilt feels overwhelming, that all I want to do is retreat. I want to crawl into bed, build walls around myself, block out any interaction,No phones or mesages, and escape into endless Netflix binges just to avoid my thoughts. I feel like a human robot—my heart still beats, my brain still functions, but the rest of my body feels numb. I’m just going through the motions, pretending to live when all I feel is emptiness. Grief comes with an unavoidable companion: guilt. Some of it is legitimate, some of it a byproduct of trauma, but it all feels real. My legitimate guilt is the deep regret that I wasn’t there for Sana in the way she needed me to be. I was her mother, and yet I failed to see her pain, to truly connect with her during those difficult years. I can’t help but think of all the conversations we could have had, all the questions I should have asked, all the moments we missed because I wasn’t fully present. Writing this blog gives me the space to express these emotions. I like to believe that Sana is reading this too, that somewhere she knows I’m sorry. I wish we had more time together—more time to talk about the things we postponed, more time to laugh, to cry, to be together. I hope she knows that even though I couldn’t be the mother she needed then, I love her deeply, and I always will. Grief is a complicated, heavy thing. It’s not just sadness or sorrow—it’s regret, guilt, love, and longing all tangled up into one. And sometimes, all you can do is write it down, hoping that by putting it into words, the weight will lessen, even if just for a moment.