Kai

I miss my mom today. I don’t know what brought her to my mind so suddenly. She just popped into my thoughts, and somehow, I found myself realizing how much I miss the comfort she gives us. Sometimes, she doesn’t even have to say anything. Her presence alone feels like enough. There’s something about knowing she’s there that makes things feel a little less heavy.

And I think what I really miss isn’t just having my mom around. I miss the idea of being close to her.

I want to be the kind of child who can tell her everything. I want to be open with her. I want to experience what it’s like to not have to keep secrets from my own mom, to be able to come home and tell her what’s been happening in my life without rehearsing every word in my head first.

But how can I do that when a part of me already knows how she might react?

Sometimes, I already imagine the words she’ll say before I even say anything. I think about the questions, the disappointment, the things she might misunderstand, or the things I might regret telling her. So instead of opening up, I keep quiet. I tell myself that it’s easier this way. That some things are better kept to myself.

And maybe that’s the saddest part.

I don’t want to be afraid of my mom. I don’t want to feel like I have to carefully choose which parts of myself she’s allowed to know. I want to trust her enough to be vulnerable without immediately preparing myself for the possibility of being judged or misunderstood.

I know she probably loves me in her own way. I know she worries. I know that sometimes the words she says may come from a place of wanting to protect me, even if they don’t always feel comforting. But sometimes, I wish she knew that I don’t always need advice, explanations, or a lecture.

Sometimes, I just want my mom to listen.

I want to be able to say, “Mom, I’m tired,” and not have to explain why.

I want to say, “Mom, I’m scared,” without feeling ashamed.

I want to tell her about the things that make me happy, the things that hurt me, the things I’m confused about, and the things I don’t even understand about myself yet.

Maybe I don’t miss some perfect version of my mom. Maybe I just miss the closeness I wish we had.

And maybe I’m grieving something that isn’t completely gone, but something I still don’t know how to reach.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely open with her. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop worrying about how she’ll react. But deep down, I still hope there comes a day when I can sit beside my mom and tell her things without fear.

Because sometimes, I don’t need her to fix anything.

I just want to feel like I can come home to her with every part of me and still feel safe enough to stay.