The Letter I Wish My Mother Had Written Me: Why I'm Writing to My Child Now
There are moments as a parent when the weight of responsibility feels almost overwhelming. Not just the day-to-day tasks of keeping a small human fed, clean, and safe—but the deeper responsibility of nurturing their emotional world, their sense of identity, and their understanding of being deeply loved.
I felt this acutely on my daughter's fifth birthday. Amidst the chaos of the celebration—the half-eaten cake, discarded wrapping paper, and the new toys already scattered across the floor—I watched her laughing with complete abandon. In that moment, I was struck by a profound realization: someday, she might struggle to remember how completely and unconditionally she was loved during these early years.
This thought led me to another, more personal one: I wish my mother had written to me.
The Questions That Linger
Like many adults, I have questions about my early years that will never be fully answered. My mother passed away when I was in my twenties, taking with her the unique perspective of the person who witnessed my beginnings.
I wonder what made her laugh when I was small. I wonder what qualities she noticed in me before I was old enough to remember. I wonder what hopes she held for me, what worried her about motherhood, and how she felt watching me take my first steps into independence.
I have photographs, of course. A few home videos with their grainy footage and muffled sound. Anecdotes shared by relatives. But I don't have her words—her thoughts recorded in real-time as she witnessed my becoming.
This absence feels like a lost treasure. Not because my childhood was unhappy or because I doubt I was loved—but because that direct connection to how she experienced my early years is forever beyond reach.
Breaking the Pattern
Perhaps this is why I started writing to my own children. Not just recording developmental milestones in a baby book or captioning photos in an album, but actually writing letters addressed directly to them—preserving not just what they did, but how it felt to witness their growth, what I noticed about their emerging personalities, and the countless ways they were cherished.
I write about ordinary days—the way my son methodically arranges his toy cars, how my daughter sings to herself when she thinks no one is listening. I document the questions they ask that leave me speechless and the made-up words that become part of our family language.
I write about challenging moments too—days when patience runs thin, when we struggle to understand each other, when I'm learning alongside them how to navigate this complex relationship. I share my own vulnerabilities, the moments I wished I'd handled differently, and the growth that parenthood has demanded of me.
Most importantly, I write about what I see in them—the qualities that might not be obvious to them now but form the unique constellation of who they are becoming. The kindness my son shows to younger children. My daughter's remarkable persistence when faced with challenges. The humor, creativity, and perspective they bring to our family that existed nowhere in the world before them.
Beyond Memory
We tend to think we'll remember everything about our children's early years. "I could never forget this," we tell ourselves as they say something hilarious or show surprising insight. Yet memory is fragile and imperfect. Studies show that our memories don't function like video recordings but are reconstructed each time we access them, subtly changing with each retrieval.
What this means is that even our most precious memories fade and transform over time. The exact words, the context, the emotional texture—these details slip away gradually, replaced by simplified versions or sometimes lost entirely.
Writing creates a different kind of record—one that captures moments as they happen, preserving the immediacy and authenticity that memory alone cannot maintain. When I write to my children, I'm creating time capsules of truth that will remain unchanged even as memories naturally evolve.
The Questions They Might Have
I write to my children now because someday, they might have the same questions I have.
They might wonder how they were loved before they could remember. They might question whether certain qualities—their sensitivity, their intensity, their unique way of seeing the world—were always part of who they were. They might seek reassurance that their struggles were met with compassion rather than disappointment.
As they navigate their own identities and perhaps their own journeys into parenthood, they might long for this connection to their beginnings—this window into not just what happened, but how it felt to the person who knew them first.
Even if I'm fortunate enough to be present to answer their questions someday, my future recollections will be filtered through decades of experience. Only words written in the moment can truly preserve the raw, unvarnished truth of these early years—the wonder, the challenges, the profound love that sometimes feels too big for ordinary conversation.
The Unexpected Gift to Myself
What began as a gift for my children's future selves has become an unexpected gift to me as well. The practice of writing these letters has changed how I parent in the present.
Taking time to reflect and write regularly makes me a more attentive observer of my children's lives. I notice more. I listen more carefully. I'm more present for the small moments that might otherwise slip by unacknowledged in the busy rush of family life.
Writing about challenges provides perspective, helping me see patterns more clearly and approach difficulties with greater compassion. Recording moments of joy amplifies them, training my attention on what's going right rather than just what needs fixing.
Perhaps most importantly, this practice has helped me articulate what might otherwise remain unspoken. The depth of love we feel for our children sometimes defies casual expression—it feels too intense, too vulnerable for everyday conversation. Writing provides the space to express these deeper truths, ensuring they're preserved rather than assumed.
A Bridge Across Time
The letters I write today serve as bridges across time—connecting the parent I am now to the adults my children will become. They're conversations that transcend the limitations of memory and the constraints of daily interaction.
I may not be able to retrieve the letters my mother never wrote, but I can ensure my own children won't face that same absence. I can give them the gift of knowing, with certainty, not just that they were loved but how they were loved—the specific qualities that were celebrated, the unique ways they were cherished, the authentic experience of watching them grow.
This practice costs nothing but time and attention. It requires no special talent—just the willingness to observe closely and write honestly. Yet few gifts have more lasting value than these words preserved across time, these bridges built between who our children are now and who they will become.
Want to create your own legacy of letters? Our Letters to My Son/Daughter As I Watch You Grow and Letters to My Little Boy/Girl As I Watch You Grow journals provide beautiful blank pages to preserve your thoughts and memories. Each journal comes with our free downloadable "Ultimate Memory Journal Blueprint" guide to help inspire meaningful letters. Grandparents can also create their own special legacy with our Letters to My Grandchild journal.