In the Stillness, I Found My Strength

In the stillness of the night, I poured my heart on paper bright

Shared my grief, my childhood friends’ early flight

A soul at 37, taken far from sight

But in return, silence, an absence of light

To my mother, I bared my soul so bare

Yearning for love, a bridge to repair

Yet her response, an echoing despair

Leaves me to wonder, in this emotional warfare

Life’s fleeting moments, a whisper in the wind

I sought solace, a chance to rescind

But her resilience, a chasm a message pinned

A heart, cold and black, where love has thinned

In the silence, I find my own strength to hold

To cherish memories, both silver and gold

For in the absence of warmth, a story unfolds

Of love, loss, and a spirit bold

"In the stillness of the night, I poured my heart on paper bright"—those words marked the beginning of something deeply personal, something long overdue. It wasn’t just a poem; it was a mirror held up to the grief I’ve carried for years. I wrote of childhood friends lost too soon, of a soul taken at 37, and of the quiet, aching absence that follows.

But as I sat with those words, another layer of pain surfaced. One I’ve tried again and again to silence, reason with, even forgive: my relationship with my mother.

For the past seven years, I’ve made several attempts to rebuild something with her—anything. In the beginning, I was desperate. I begged for her love like a child left out in the cold. I apologized endlessly, for things I did, and heartbreakingly, for things I didn’t do. I told her she deserved a better daughter than I had been. I offered myself up entirely—"just please talk to me again."

When silence followed, my desperation evolved into anger. I told her what I thought of her silence, her past mistakes, the things she never said or did. Then came the rationalizations: Let’s pretend for your dad. That’s all he wants. Just pretend, even if it’s hollow.

And still, nothing.

Two Christmases ago, I wrote her a poem. Not to grovel, not to accuse—but to extend my hand one last time. I told her she deserved more than what life had given her. That maybe, just maybe, we could work on healing together. I reminded her that despite everything, I would always love her and be there when she was ready.

But that Christmas broke me in a way I never saw coming. She didn’t just ignore the poem—I heard that she burned it. Laughed while doing it. And worse still, included my son in it, teaching him to laugh too. She burned not just the poem, but any illusion I had left.

In return, silence. An absence of light.

To my mother, I bared my soul so bare. I tried everything—apology, anger, poetry, forgiveness. And all I got was an echo. A void so complete it deafens.

But here's what I’ve realized in the wake of that void: there is strength in surviving it.

We can’t waste them begging those who’ve turned their backs to see our worth. I sought solace. I offered peace. And when none came, I found myself instead.

I will always carry the ache of a love that was never returned. But I’ll also carry the truth: I tried. I gave it my all. And that means something.

In the silence, I’ve begun to find my own strength. To cherish memories—the silver and the gold. To write not just of grief, but of resilience. For in the absence of warmth, a story unfolds. Not of weakness, but of a spirit bold enough to keep loving, even when love was never returned.

In my mother's abusive silence, I found my strength