Sometimes, I wish I had written this sooner. Now, I just hope I don’t later regret writing it now.

I officially lost my biological mother last month. She was found dead in her room, alone, nothing surrounding her but stacks of papers and a lock box. I’m told she had been living in this particular short-term housing for several months. Before that remains a tangle of questions, of which I am now slowly unraveling the answers.

I had not spoken to my mother for the better part of a decade. The only written communication was a letter, wishing me a Merry Christmas, and hoping my child was doing well. I’ve never walked the path of motherhood. To my knowledge, I’ve never even been pregnant.

The week before, I’d received a voicemail from her. Up until that point, I assumed she knew neither my number or my address. I assumed she had no way to communicate with me at all. The voicemail was muffled and rambling – the same as I’d remembered when we did communicate more frequently.

As most of you know, writing is my therapy. And grief seems to be my biggest muse. Her death has given me a tiny bit of courage to share the story of our relationship. Quite honestly, if I were to publish a book, this story would be it. Or the start of it, at least.

I often hold back when people ask of her. I know they are being polite – asking the typical friendly, chit chat questions. And I know they mean no harm, mostly. But there are few situations I find appropriate to share even a snippet. Even to summarize with “we’re estranged” brings up questions I rarely have the energy to answer. And I’ve learned I’m not the only one that withholds in this way.

As dedicated followers over the years, I’m in need of something I haven’t asked for before –

Encouragement.

For reference, I’m not sharing to social media outlets beyond my email followers just yet. This story is painful, and continues to be a deep wound in my life I do not share. I’ve struggled to find the courage to put it on paper at all. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe I wanted to respect the privacy of a painfully complicated and difficult relationship, as well as a strained life. Sometimes I tell myself it’s the sensitivity of the topic that holds me back. Maybe I’ve just been a pansy about it all. But I doubt it.

My ask:

Give me time to let it out slowly, and in my own way. And when you feel called to do so, send a note of encouragement. If you’ve ever known or loved someone whose mind did not love them back, you will understand. If you have not, maybe this story will help you better understand the unimaginable. Maybe it will help us all better understand the darkest corners of mental health, and the lack of solutions actually available.

We all have layers to our onion we don’t unpeel. We all have chapters we don’t read out loud. So be kind in your comments, and in your feedback. My hope in sharing is that we each realize that our skeletons and dark corners make us more connected than not. Although this story feels unique to me, there’s a good chance it is not. True of any of our stories, really. We just have to share them out loud, to know what we share across the board.

This is the story of what I know of my mother. May I have the courage to write it with honesty and without regret, for a life lived in the gray.