Dear Mom,

I was reminded last week about the days when you’d be my beta reader. For so many years, you provided me with feedback, constructive criticism, and edits. Of course, there were also many pieces of writing that I hid from you. Diaries, personal essays, even that one play I wrote in grad school that went into details about one of my past relationships. Actually, I wrote plays about both of my past relationships. I can’t believe the other one was read aloud to my class senior year of high school. I didn’t hold back on the details, and everyone knew who it was about. Super awkward.

In undergrad, I allowed you to read the writing I had to turn in for homework. I usually kept it to the research papers and stories. Maybe a personal essay or two, but some of those weren’t for your eyes. On the occasions when you did read my work, you were always so kind while being very helpful. You struck the perfect balance of criticism and compliment. The perfect beta reader. 

I do wish I had shared more of my writing with you. I wish I wasn’t so afraid to share the other words. Some of it was just too close to the truth. Too private to share with my mother. I spilled raw emotions onto paper, and I wasn’t ready for anyone other than a classroom of complete strangers to read it.

There were other pieces of writing I kept to myself because I knew my effort was subpar due to my having been less than sober while writing – a truth you could probably sniff out. I couldn’t have you commenting on my sloppy writing. I couldn’t have you worrying about me.

For the works of writing I did share with you, I appreciated your eyes. I welcomed your insight. You had the ability to give me compliments while also giving me edits. Mostly grammatical edits, sometimes plot edits, always a whole lot of encouragement. You were, in many ways, my biggest fan and when it came to my writing you didn’t hold back. Honestly, I probably would have given up on my writing a lot sooner if you hadn’t been there to push me. I think it kind of broke your heart a little when I took a break from writing after moving to Los Angeles. How sad that what caused me to stop writing was working in the film industry, the very thing that inspired me to write to begin with. And how ironic that the one thing that convinced me to start writing again was your absence.

I began writing these letters to you almost nine years ago in an effort to continue our conversation. To keep the mother daughter relationship going and growing even after you were already physically gone. I started writing to you when I was pregnant, hormonal, riddled with grief, and attempting to take steps through life without you. I missed you so much and could barely go through a day without crying over your absence. Those years were the most challenging and having these letters allowed me to move through it. To get to the other side. Even if all I did was share with you how I was feeling in my current moment. To fill you in on all that was happening in my life. So, you didn’t have to continue to miss out. 

But the purpose of these letters was always bigger. It wasn’t only to tell you about all the moments you were missing since you died but it was also about those hard words that I never said to you when you were still alive. I began to tell you things I had wished I would’ve told you before it was too late. The stories I kept from you and the moments I hid.

So much of it became about my secrets. I felt this overwhelming desire to confess to you. To find the courage out of my cowardice to finally tell you what’s been on my mind all along. My way of dealing with the regret of not being brave enough to tell you to your face. These are the topics that I’m still not always ready to talk about. The big, sticky moments in life. I’m still chipping away at those.  

When I think about all the years when you’d read my writing, it was bigger than grammatical edits and constructive criticism. When you read my words, I was letting you in. Allowing you the access to my thoughts. Even if it was fiction writing, a part of me was still on the page and that part was always vulnerable. Through my fragile thoughts and your kind feedback, our relationship had the opportunity to strengthen. I can’t recall a time when I sent you my writing and you made me feel bad in any way. You were always supportive. And that was what I needed from you. A quiet, nonjudgmental support. It probably helped me get through undergrad if I’m being honest.

Writing these letters to you for all these years has kept our relationship going. It’s as if you’re still my beta reader. You’re still my biggest fan, cheering me on and encouraging me from afar. I often wonder what you’d say about my words now. Would you tell me to structure my sentences differently? Would you tell me I’m being too honest? Or would you tell me to stop holding back? To go further. To tell more truths. 

I miss your notes. I miss your thoughts.

At times, I have found it hard to share my writing with the public. Family, friends, and strangers. The criticism isn’t always constructive. The feedback isn’t always kind. The notes aren’t always nonjudgemental. But I get through those moments because I still feel your support. I still hear your voice telling me to keep going. To not give up. And I have the ability to edit with your eyes. To look at my sentences and pick out the words you’d tell me to delete or swap out. I can feel your hand on my shoulder, giving me permission to tell that story. To be raw and honest even if it’s scary.

If I’m honest with myself, there are still things I’m not ready to share with you. Still a few secrets I’d like to keep a little longer. Maybe I’m scared to tell you. Or maybe I’m scared to simply put some moments into words. Maybe some of my feelings must simmer in the darkness a little longer.

I do know that when I’m ready to share these moments with you, I will find the courage to put them down on paper because you taught me how to believe in my own thoughts. How to stand by my own words. Through your years of encouraging me to never give up on my writing you taught me how to believe in myself. And I’ve faltered so many times throughout my life, but remembering your unconditional support has reminded myself that I am in fact brave enough to finish what I started here. Soon, Mom. Soon, I will tell you everything. I will open up and all those moments I kept from you will pour out of me.

Until then. Until I’m ready to be more raw than ever, I will continue to tell you about all that you’re missing. I’ll continue to write you these letters so we can, at the very least, continue our conversation. We can continue our relationship.

I love you, Mom. And thank you for your undying support.

Love,

Rachel