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A Letter to Home
I miss you. I miss home. I miss the certainty of your love.
How strange, this journey we call growing up. We spend years clawing our way toward freedom, desperate to prove ourselves beyond the shadow of your expectations, only to discover that freedom tastes nothing like we imagined. It is bitter and sweet, exhilarating and terrifying and in its quietest moments, achingly lonely.
In the hollow silence of 3 AM, as the world slumbers and my screen bathes my face in its cold glow, I am suddenly, violently awake to a truth I’ve been running from. The realisation doesn’t whisper, it thunders through me, shaking loose every pretense I’ve crafted about independence and self-sufficiency.
I miss you. I miss home. I miss the certainty of your love.
Mom, there are nights I would give anything to crawl into your lap again, to feel your fingers brush the hair from my forehead, to breathe in the scent that will always mean safety to me. I want to press my face against your shoulder and confess how tired I am of wearing armour, how exhausted I am from pretending that I always know what comes next. The world you prepared me for exists only in fragments; the rest is improvisation and prayer.
