Dear Mom,

I hope you see yourself how your hands tremble when you laugh too hard, how you say “I’m fine” then fall quiet, as if silence can hold everything together. I hope you know I’ve seen your hidden tears, the ones you blamed on “allergies” while folding clothes, your voice soft and tired beneath the hum of the kitchen. I’ve seen the scars you call “old stories,” the ones you touch when life gets too heavy, your smile more like a wall than a window. But I’ve also seen your quiet strength the mornings you rose anyway, wearing joy like armor, your laughter carrying the weight of so many battles no one saw. I hope you remember those quiet moments of freedom not just the late nights you danced alone under the soft glow of kitchen light, but the way your spirit glows even when the world feels dim. But more than anything, I hope you stop saying sorry for existing, for loving, for being human. You’ve spent your life watering everyone else’s garden while forgetting your own roots. You don’t just deserve peace, you deserve to bloom.