There’s a part of healing that nobody really talks about — the part where you realize you might never get the apology you deserve. And even if you do, it’s not going to undo the years of damage.
I’m learning that firsthand.
My relationship with my mom has been complicated for as long as I can remember. There are things she said, things she did, ways she made me feel that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And for a long time, I thought maybe one day she’d get it. That maybe she’d wake up, reflect, and realize the hurt she caused — that she’d call me crying, apologize, and everything would somehow click into place.
But here's the truth: I know deep down that an apology isn’t coming.
And even if by some miracle it does… what then?
A few words — no matter how sincere — aren’t a magic eraser. They won’t stitch up the wounds or fill the empty spaces where love and safety were supposed to live. They won’t give me back the years I spent second-guessing my worth. Maybe I'd feel better for a minute or two. Maybe I'd even cry. But when the dust settles, the hurt will still be there, waiting for me to do the work of healing it.
It’s not fair.
But it is reality.
My therapist recently gave me a powerful suggestion that I honestly didn’t want to hear at first — she told me to write a letter to my mom.
Not to send it.
Not to confront her with it.
But to give myself a voice.
At first, I hated the idea.
Why should I do the work when she’s the one who hurt me?
Why should I bleed onto paper just to make peace with what she broke?
But the more I sat with it, the more I realized — this letter isn’t for her.
It’s for me.
It’s for the younger version of me who needed someone to say, “You deserved better.”
It’s for the present me who’s tired of carrying around anger and sadness like a second skin.
It’s for the future me who refuses to keep handing over my power to someone who never cared to protect it in the first place.
The hardest part of healing is realizing that closure isn’t always about someone else finally doing the right thing.
Sometimes closure looks like sitting with your own pain, letting it breathe, and then gently telling it:
You don't control me anymore.
Writing that letter is my first step toward releasing the things she will never acknowledge.
Toward forgiving myself for waiting so long to be chosen.
Toward healing for real — messy, imperfect, but mine.
And if you’re reading this and it feels a little too close to home… maybe it’s your time too.
Maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the apology that may never come.
Maybe it’s time to give yourself the closure you deserve.
Maybe — just maybe — the real healing starts when you realize you’re not broken because of what someone else couldn’t give you.
You’re healing because you’re finally giving it to yourself.
