Dear Mumma,
It’s hard to know where to start, but it feels right to do this, to sit down and write to you. I’ve been thinking about what this is—these letters, this journey—and I realize it’s not about bridging a gap. You left an empty space in my life, Mumma, a world of moments we’ll never share. But you didn’t leave an empty space in me. I feel you, as close and real as ever, as if you’re still here, woven deeply into who I am. I’m not reaching out to find you because you’re already with me. Instead, I want these letters to honor you, to tell our story for others to understand. I want them to know you like I did.
You were young when you became a mother, barely out of girlhood yourself, and yet you embraced it with a strength I see now was remarkable. I can only imagine what it must have been like—those first years, balancing dreams you’d barely had a chance to imagine with the weight of raising a child. And somehow, you did it with this incredible, boundless love, as though you’d always known how. That love became the fabric of my world, something I thought I’d have forever. But the time we had was shorter than either of us imagined. You were taken too soon, and the life I thought we’d have together was cut away in a moment.
Yet, in a strange way, I feel you closer than ever. You’re there in the quiet moments, in my thoughts and even in the decisions I make. Every time I face a challenge or need reassurance, I remember the things you used to tell me, the wisdom you shared when I was just a kid who didn’t fully understand it yet. Somehow, you knew what I’d need, as if you anticipated that one day I’d have to carry on without you. But I want more than just memories. I want others to understand the fullness of who you were, the woman behind “mom.”
You were always more than just my mother. You were my friend, and I always looked up to you. You were a person with romantic dreams, with a history and stories that I wish I’d taken the time to understand better. I remember moments where I’d catch a glimpse of that woman—the way you’d tell me stories about you and Dad when you were young, the quiet passion you had for the things you loved, the humor that could lighten any room. I see now that there was so much I didn’t ask, so many questions I saved for “someday.” But life doesn’t wait for us to find the perfect moment, and “someday” never came.
Writing to you feels like a way to capture those pieces of you and share them. It’s like I’m building a narrative that will let others see you as I did, in all your complexity, with all the beauty and strength you carried. I want these letters to paint a picture, one that will linger in their minds and show them just how incredible you were. Maybe, in reading these letters, someone else might feel the strength and kindness you gave to me, like a quiet hand guiding them too.
The day you left, I stood there in stillness. It was as if time itself had stopped, and in that silence, I felt your presence, calm and steady, like you were right there with me. I’ve always been your helper, always at your side, looking after my brother and sister as we grew up, taking on small roles to ease your load. And the moment I learned you were gone, I knew what I had to do. I needed to step up, to hold the pieces together, to take care of everyone you left behind: my Dad, my brother, my sister. No one was prepared for this, and maybe in some quiet way, you knew that I would be, that I would know what to do. So, I gathered myself and began the role I was always meant to play, one last time, for you.
The day we had your funeral, I remember standing there, surrounded by people who came to pay their respects. It felt surreal, like I was caught between worlds, trying to accept something my mind wasn’t ready for. Everything blurred together—the condolences, the faces, the words people said. And through it all, I kept waiting for you to show up, to laugh off this horrible misunderstanding and take my hand like you always had. But you didn’t. And in that moment, I had to face the reality of a life where I’d never see you again.
But here’s the thing, Mum. Even though you’re gone, you’ve never really left me. There’s a part of you that’s become a part of me, like an inheritance of spirit. It’s in the way I laugh at things, in the resilience I find in tough times, in the compassion I feel for others. I know these are pieces of you that you passed on to me. And now, in your absence, I find myself clinging to those pieces, not because I feel lost, but because they bring me closer to you.
People talk about grief like it’s this emptiness, a dark hollow that consumes everything. And while there’s truth to that, for me, it’s not a void. It’s a presence. I feel you in my life, almost like a guide, as though you’re just beyond my sight but never far from my reach. I carry you with me, and because of that, these letters aren’t about loss. They’re about celebration. They’re a tribute to everything you were and everything you left behind in me.
Sometimes I think about what you would have said if we’d had more time together, if you could see who I’m becoming. I wonder if you’d be proud, if you’d laugh at the things I still get wrong, or if you’d tell me I was stronger than I realized. I wonder, too, if you ever knew just how much you meant to me. I hope you did. I hope I showed you, even in the moments when I was too young or too distracted to put it into words. Because you were my world, the person I turned to, my rock in every storm.
These letters, then, are for you, but they’re also for me—to remind myself of everything you were and everything you taught me. And they’re for anyone else who’s lost someone they love, to let them know they’re not alone. Maybe, in reading these words, they’ll find their own memories rising up, a reminder of the people they’ve lost but who are still with them. Maybe they’ll see that grief doesn’t mean emptiness but can be a way to hold on, to keep those we love close even after they’re gone.
I’ll keep writing to you, Mom, not because I need to find you but because I already have. I’ll write to honor the life you lived, the love you gave, and the legacy you left in me. And maybe, in these words, others will come to know you too, not just as my mother but as the remarkable person you were.
I love you, Mumma, and miss you dearly,
April
