Dear Mẹ,

I don’t know if I’ve ever truly told you this in a way you could feel, but —

I love you.

And I always have.

Even when I couldn’t run into your arms.

Even when my hugs were awkward.

Even when my silence felt like distance,

I was still loving you in the only way I knew how.

I was your firstborn.

Born from love, into love.

And though you had to hand me to Grandma’s arms

so you could build a better life for me —

I want you to know:

I never saw that as abandonment.

I see now how much strength it must have taken

to love me from afar while chasing the future we both live in today.

And for that, I will always carry gratitude in my bones.

But this letter is also for what we never said aloud.

Because I know — I always knew —

that you wanted a closeness with me

that we couldn’t quite reach.

You wanted me to laugh in your lap.

To hug you spontaneously.

To tell you all the things little girls tell their mothers.

But I couldn’t.

Not because I didn’t want to.

But because I didn’t know how.

I was born with walls no one could see.

I was built with quiet, with depth, with sensitivity

that made me feel safest in solitude.

And I know that hurt you sometimes —

that you craved a daughter who would run back to you

the way I always ran to Grandma.

And when you had my brother,

I understood, in the quietest corner of my heart,

that you were trying to experience motherhood again —

a little differently, a little closer, a little more freely.

I don’t blame you for that.

I would have done the same.

But I want you to know that even though I didn’t always show it,

you were — and still are —

a mother I admire.

You gave everything,

even when you didn’t feel received.

You kept loving,

even when my love didn’t look like the kind you hoped for.

Now, as I walk my own healing journey,

I see more clearly the tenderness beneath your strength.

I understand the sacrifices, the loneliness, the quiet prayers you never spoke aloud.

And I want you to know:

I see you now.

And I’m sorry for the times I made you feel unloved.

For the distance I didn’t know how to close.

For the hugs I never gave.

For the stories I never shared.

This isn’t an apology for who I am —

but a love letter to who you are.

Because even though we speak different emotional languages,

you were always my mother.

My first mirror.

My first safety —

even if I didn’t know how to show it.

Thank you for loving me

even in silence.

Even through tears.

Even when I didn’t run toward you.

I’m running now — not away,

but toward our truth.

And I hope, with every word I write,

you feel just how deeply I’ve always loved you.

Yêu mẹ nhiều,

Your daughter