My mother was the person I trusted more than anyone else — but last year, I found out that she had been lying to me for the past ten years. The reality I had believed in since I was a child shattered in an instant, and I knew we would never be the same again. At the same time, I didn’t know how I could begin to heal from that heartbreak — that is, until I opened my journal and wrote about it.
The night I found out the truth about my mother’s past, I was overwhelmed, confused, and spiraling. How could I continue my life after learning that the person I trusted most had hidden such a huge part of herself from me? If my own mom could betray my trust, how could I ever fully trust anyone else again? Would I ever feel safe enough to let people in?
After a few days of bottling up my emotions and thoughts, I decided to open my journal. This was not easy for me. A lot of the time, when I am going through something painful, journaling is the last thing I want to do. I am an avoidant person by nature, so I would much rather distract myself than sit with my feelings. However, I have realized that the days I least want to write are usually the days I need it most. I forced myself to start, and once I did, I couldn’t stop.Â
Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just documenting what happened; I was learning how to live with it.
I started writing without much of a plan; I just wrote. With messy handwriting, I filled pages with thoughts, questions, and emotions I didn’t even realize I had. Not only was I grieving the version of my mom I thought I knew, but I was also grieving the loss of the future I always pictured with her. Eventually, days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months turned into a year. Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just documenting what happened; I was learning how to live with it.
When I used to think of journaling, I pictured someone who was put-together, calmly reflecting on life with perfect cursive handwriting. I quickly realized this wasn’t a reality for me. I allowed myself to be messy and incomplete, because showing up was the most important part. On the days I felt completely broken, I still wrote. On days when I could only manage a few sentences, I still wrote. When tears were falling onto the paper, I still wrote. And that was enough for me.
Now, in moments when I am scared that I am still broken and haven’t made progress, I can read back on the beginning stages of my journey and find evidence of my growth. Every time I read my entries from the initial heartbreak, I feel a sense of pride that I persevered through the pain. I can see my perspective shift: I can watch as I begin to find clarity amid my spiraling thoughts, and I can literally read the story of myself figuring out how to move forward and adjust to my new reality.Â
I am grateful that I forced myself to journal when I was at a low point because now I can reflect on my entries and carry my resilience into future relationships. It would have been so much more comfortable to push my emotions down and avoid dealing with them, but something inside me decided to seek out an outlet.Â
Journaling didn’t change what happened between my mom and me. It didn’t erase the betrayal or repair our relationship. But what it did change was me: It gave me a place to ask questions I couldn’t answer, to grieve the relationship I thought I had, and eventually to realize that one person’s betrayal didn’t have to define every relationship that came after it.Â
I might not be completely healed yet, and sometimes it’s still hard to put it into words, but I know one thing for certain: I am incredibly grateful that I can open my journal and write it all down anyway.