Open Letters

Let the Healing begin

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At 60, I’m finally facing the pain I’ve carried for decades. It’s a heavy load, one I was taught to ignore because my emotions didn’t matter. “Just let it go,” they said. “Others matter more.” In my family of four, I was the “fish child”—the odd one out, swimming in a current of expectations and unspoken rules, never quite fitting in. My mother’s death left a void, and my father’s grief turned the holidays, once a time of warmth, into a season of extra chores and shared misery. If he hated the holidays, we had to hate them too. Growing up, I learned to bury my feelings. My father’s selfishness—his insistence that we bear his pain—came with emotional and sometimes physical abuse. I was taught that tolerating this was the price of connection, that love meant enduring. But it didn’t. It left me disconnected, not just from him but from myself. Now, I’m unlearning those lessons. My emotions do matter. I don’t have to accept abuse to feel close to another human soul. This blog is my act of healing—a space to name the pain, to honor the fish child who deserved better, and to reach out to others who’ve lived similar stories. If you’ve ever felt invisible in your family, told to “let it go” while your heart ached, know this: you’re not alone. Your pain is real, and it’s okay to feel it. Healing starts with seeing yourself, with refusing to carry the weight of someone else’s misery. I’m 60, and I’m finally free to feel. To those reading this, I hope my words help you take that first step toward your own freedom. You don’t have to tolerate abuse to be loved. You are enough, just as you are. MeganR Pronounced Me-Goner as me gone from the abuse and living a happy life.

A Letter to Myself

I’ve been searching for something(searching for something)
Taken out of my soul(taken out of my so-o-oul)
Something I’d never lose(never lose)
Something somebody stole(something somebody stole) ~ Billy Joel

Dear 8-Year-Old Me,

I’ve been carrying you with me for a long time, tucked away in the corners of my heart where the pain of losing Mom still lingers. I’m writing this open letter to you—and to anyone else who might need to hear it—because I’ve learned that healing begins when we finally let ourselves feel, when we stop hiding from the grief that shapes us. I wish I could go back and hold you, to tell you it’s okay to cry, to grieve, to be confused. But since I can’t, I’ll share our story here, hoping it helps someone else avoid the mistakes I made.

Before Mom died, I was a very spoiled child. You remember that, don’t you? We had everything we wanted—toys, treats, attention. Mom and Dad took turns traveling to the Philippines for business, so one of them was always away, but they made sure we felt loved when they were home. When Mom got sick, I didn’t understand why we couldn’t visit her in the hospital. I thought she was just on another trip, like always. I’d sit by the window, waiting for her to come back, imagining her walking through the door with that warm smile I loved so much. At 8 years old, I didn’t really understand the concept of death. I thought it was something temporary, something that could be undone if someone just woke her up.

When she passed, I was at her funeral, surrounded by family, but I felt so alone. My aunts, trying to comfort me in their own way, told me, “Big boys don’t cry.” I took that to heart, bottling up my emotions because I didn’t want to seem weak. But inside, I was a mess. I kept thinking, If someone just wakes her up, she’ll be alive again. I didn’t understand that death was permanent, that Mom wasn’t coming back. Because I wasn’t showing my grief, people around me started to see me as cold and heartless—a stark contrast to the spoiled, carefree child I’d been before. They didn’t know I was just a confused little boy who didn’t know how to grieve, who’d been told not to cry.

It wasn’t until three years later, when I was 11, that I finally began to process Mom’s death. The delayed grief hit me like a tidal wave. I remember sitting in my room one day, looking at a photo of her, and suddenly the tears came—tears I’d held back for so long. I cried for hours, for all the times I’d waited by the window, for all the moments I’d wanted to tell her I missed her but couldn’t. That was when I realized how much I’d been holding in, how much I’d needed to feel that pain to start healing. But by then, the damage was done. The perception of me as cold and heartless had stuck, and I’d learned to suppress my emotions even more, often capitulating to keep the peace in my relationships, even at my own expense.

Looking back, I see how that pattern of suppression started with Mom’s death. I didn’t just lose her—I lost the ability to express my emotions freely, to grieve openly, to be vulnerable. I spent years trying to keep the peace, to avoid conflict, because I didn’t want to feel that kind of pain again. But I’ve learned that keeping the peace at the cost of my own feelings only leads to more hurt, more isolation. I don’t want you—or anyone else reading this—to make the same mistakes I did.

This blog, “Open Letters,” is my way of letting the healing begin—for myself and for others. I want to reach out to those who need to hear my words the most, even if they might never read them, and connect with others who have gone through or are currently facing similar situations. If you’re holding in your grief, if you’ve been told not to cry, if you’re suppressing your emotions to keep the peace, I’m here to tell you: it’s okay to feel. It’s okay to mourn. It’s okay to speak your truth, even if it’s messy, even if it’s hard.

I wish I could tell my 8-year-old self that big boys do cry, that grief isn’t something to be ashamed of, that Mom’s death wasn’t something I could fix by waiting for her to come back. I wish I could tell you that the people who called you cold and heartless didn’t see the little boy who was just trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt so empty. But I can’t go back. What I can do is share my story now, through these open letters, and hope that it helps someone else start their healing journey sooner than I did.

So, to my younger self, and to anyone reading this: let the healing begin. Let yourself feel, let yourself grieve, and let yourself grow. Don’t wait three years—or thirty—to mourn what you’ve lost. Write your own open letter, whether it’s to someone you’ve lost, to your past self, or to the world. Let your words be the bridge over your troubled waters, just like I’m trying to do with mine.

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