A Light to Hold

“Today was the day I finally opened the letter I had written to myself ten years ago.” I wrote down in my diary. “It was early in the morning, after I’ve sent in my final work of the week, when I got an email notification. I thought it was from my boss and wondered how he could have scanned it to be already sending comments. But when I checked, I saw it was an email from my other account—the one I rarely use. I wondered who it could be from and what it could contain but what I found surprised me. I don’t even remember writing a letter to my future self, but here we are.

“I was like any other teenager, full of dreams. The beginning of my letter was simple, filled with hopes and questions about the future. I asked myself if I was happy, if I had found work I loved, and if I was still close with my friends. Simple thoughts.

“But there were parts of the letter that were getting deeper. Before I could read further, I got a call from my boss asking me to a meeting, which I’m in now. I’m writing on you, diary, while on mute.”

“Did you get that right?” my boss asks.

I unmute and reply, “Yes, I did. You asked for the proposal to be submitted before the end of the month.” It’s the last week of the month, I think. “And I can assure you, I will submit it on time,”

“Good to know that,” He replies and ends the call, with no “thank you” or “goodbye.” I hate this, and then I pick my pen.

“Of course, diary, I assured him I would submit it on time because I will, but that requires a lot of stress on my part since I’m working on other projects too. He calls me the best employee, but it feels like he’s just handing me all the heavy burdens. I hate being stressed because when I’m stressed, I—”

“Honey, let’s have lunch,” my mom says as she enters the kitchen.

“Hey, mom. I didn’t hear you come down.”

“You looked focused.”

“What do you want for lunch?” I ask

Smiling, she replies, “Let’s have some spaghetti.”

“My favorite!” I squeal. “But we don’t have the ingredients.”

“Let’s go buy.” After a pause, she adds, “I think you need some walking, too.”

My lovely mom knows me best. I grab the house key and follow her out.

When in the supermarket, I asked her which type of sauce she wanted. Then, I saw a lady in the aisle looking at me strangely. Weird. I picked one and showed my mom. “Is this good?” I asked, but then I noticed more people giving me strange glances, which felt odd. Whispering, I asked Mom, “Do you see them?” But she just replied to the first. We picked our items, paid, and headed home.

At home, after lunch, Mom goes off to take a nap, and I do the dishes. Passing by the fridge, I get a feeling that I forgot something, but I can’t remember.

I go back to my seat at the kitchen island where I left my things. I pick up my diary and see where I left off: ‘Because when I'm stressed, I…’ What was I going to write? Never mind. I decide to go back to the letter.

As I open my inbox, the subject line catches my eye again: ‘To My Future Self.’ It feels strange to read the words of my younger self. I start where I left off.

‘I hope you’ve become the kind of person you wanted to be,’ it begins. ‘I hope you’re kind, brave, and happy. That you don’t let little things get you down.’ A pang of sadness hits me.  Now, I can’t always hold my ground. How strange that I was so earnest back then.

I read on, discovering reminders and hopes I had for myself. ‘I hope you’ve overcome it. I don’t actually mean overcome it, but, like, handled it well? Yeah. I hope you have handled it well.’ I can’t remember what “it” was. ‘You still miss her and talk about her often, right? I mean it’s been two months since she left and I already miss her like crazy.’

Who was I talking about? I feel a mix of curiosity and fear, as if this memory was something I shouldn’t have forgotten. But then my thoughts shift as I read the next words: ‘Mom’s death was an actual shock. I can’t even believe it now. But I hope you have accepted it and are living well, keeping her in your thoughts, prayers, and heart.’

Wait—what? What was I saying? I must have been crazy. No, it can’t be me. Whoever wrote that is a crazy person trying to pull my leg.

I run upstairs to tell my mom about this bizarre prank, but I don’t find her. I look everywhere and then finally rush downstairs. I start panicking not finding her.

I go to the kitchen, where I left my phone, to call her, and that’s when something catches my eye—a note on the fridge, reading, therapy at 3—don’t forget! It’s my uncle’s handwriting.

Why do I need to go? Where’s mom? She was just sleep— then it all comes flooding back. I start hyperventilating. I need to call my uncle.

The phone picks up after the first ring, and I hear my aunt’s cheerful voice, “Hey, honey, are you ready? We’re almost there.”

“I-I—” I try to speak but my voice breaks.

Her tone changes instantly. “Hey, sweetie, just breathe with me.”

My uncle, in the distance, says “It’s alright, focus on your breathing.”

While trying to do so, my hands shake and the phone slips from my grip. I wrap my arms around myself, sinking onto the cold floor—or maybe it just feels that way because I’ve lost the warmth of my world—my mom. Again.

Later, I wake up lying on the couch. My aunt sitting by my side, offers me a glass of water. “Your uncle’s on the phone with the therapist.” I drink slowly, and when I hand the glass back, she gently asks, “Do you remember?”

I nod, the memory stirring tears that I can’t hold back and she hugs me. You’d think you’d get used to it after the times it had happened, but it never gets easier.

It’s strange how forgetting for a moment can bring comfort, only for the memory to come crashing back, all at once, painfully clear. Mom. She’s gone.

My uncle enters, “I rescheduled your therapy for the evening. Do you think you can make it?”

I nod, avoiding his gaze. I can’t help but think he must be mad.

Then, instantly, he confirms it. “This had been happening often since last year—since you started your job. You need to do something.”

“I’m sorry.”

He paces back and forth, then says calmly, “Not to me. You owe yourself an apology. Why do you keep doing what harms you? You don’t even like it!”

He’s right. My aunt steps in, asking him to stop.

In the evening, I sit in the quiet of my therapist’s office. Or at least it’s quiet around us—my thoughts are anything but. Memories start to resurface. It started when I was in junior high school, about a year after Mom died. I was sitting alone in my room, studying, exhausted and overwhelmed. Then my mom entered my room, she told me to take it easy. In her warm smile and gentle voice, she told me to go for a walk, to get some fresh air. And then I remember telling her all that worried me.

My aunt walked in while I was mid-conversation. I’ll never forget the look on her face, the shock. She held me by my shoulders and said, gently, “Sweetie, your mom's not here…she passed away.” It hit me hard like it did yesterday and every time since then. I was devastated all over again. My uncle took me to see someone the next day. That’s when I first met my therapist.

“Stress sometimes shows itself in strange ways,” she told me. “You’re seeing your mother because you miss her, and you associate her with comfort.” It had a name—“visual hallucinations from stress,” she’d said. She said it could happen when I was overwhelmed or emotionally stretched too thin. Since then, my therapist has been helping me, and I take medication to ease it. She advises me to avoid triggers.

I sit in silence, thinking of my mom—my comfort, my safe place when I was—am scared. My mom, who taught me how to handle things calmly, who’d make my favourite food when I was sad, who’d remind me to take walks to destress. I think of how she’d be distressed to see my situation now.

How even my younger self would be disappointed. The self who’d hoped I’d find a work I love, who’d asked a decade ago if I’d be happy today, who’d hoped I’d become kind and brave.

I think of my uncle and his wife, who have always been there for me. How they support me every time, only for me to fall back again.

I hate this. I hate that I’m not as good as the people I love think I me. Like my uncle said, and always did, I need to do something. I want to quit.

“Wise decision,” says my therapist. I didn’t even realize I’d said that out loud. “Go on,” she urges me.

“If not for myself,” I begin, “I need to be better for the people who love me.” I pause. “No, I want to be better for them.”

My therapist nods. “This is a big step,” she says. “Remember, change doesn’t happen overnight. Start by finding what makes you feel more like yourself. Explore what makes you happy.”

I nod, feeling a spark of determination. For the first time in a long time, I imagine a future where I’m not stuck in a cycle of stress and where I can honor my mother’s memory. I picture living up to my younger self’s hopes and feeling proud of myself.

After finishing the session and on the way home, I email my boss that I quit. It might not be easy, but I feel good.

At dinner with my uncle and aunt, I thank them both for everything. They look at me oddly.

“We’re here for you, honey,” my aunt says.

“We’re family,” my uncle adds.

Then I see my aunt nudge my uncle’s shoulder. He clears his throat. “About earlier.. sorry,” he says.

“No, I understand,” I reply. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“No, don’t be. You owe it to yourself to be happy, not to anyone else,” my uncle says firmly.

“And your happiness is ours too,” my aunt adds softly.

I nod, now, more determined to become better.

Later, as I climb into bed, I remember the unfinished letter and, for the second time today, I read where I left off:

‘I hope, above all, that you remember you are stronger than you think and worthy of every happiness. And those who love you will always be with you, in the form of a prayer or a guiding presence.’

Well, if that doesn’t add to my determination.

I pick up my pen for the last time today, and continue writing in my diary: “..I remember my mom in the wrong way. It’s time I change that; not as a reminder of my struggles but as a guide for my strength.” I pause chuckling as I remember something. “When my younger self said to keep my mom in my thoughts, I think I may have taken that a bit far, didn’t I, diary?” I close my notebook, turn off the lights, and go to sleep soundly for the first time in months.