Letters I'm Writing: To My Children

If you’re carrying guilt about who you became while drowning in your grief, or wondered whether the people you love could forgive you for failing them when you couldn’t hold yourself together, this is for you.

I wrote this letter to my children while they were out living their lives. I don’t know if I’ll ever give it to them. And not because it isn’t true, but because some truths need to be lived out loud.

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To my children,

This was never the life I wanted for you. You lost your Mom and in the process lost a piece of your Dad.

You had to learn to be adults too soon.

You had to learn that adults fail and break promises.

You had to learn that adults struggle as much as you.

And worst of all, you had to experience that pain co-exists with the magic of life.

When You Were Born, I Was Terrified

The day each of you were born was the scariest day of my life.

I watched Mommy’s heroic efforts delivering you.

I saw her power and knew, I couldn’t live without her.

I witnessed the painful process of you coming into this world.

You were brave, strong, and fragile.

When it was time for me to became a Dad, I promised to protect you and love you without hesitation.

But the promise felt too big, because I was afraid of all the ways I would fail you.

The Night Mommy Saved Me

You have seen glimpses growing up how wholly I have struggled with depression and anxiety.

After you were born, the weight of my world collapsed around me.

I began believing you and Mommy would be better off without me. I was convinced that I was too much of a burden. I was sure my presence in your life would do more harm than good.

I was a broken boy trying to be a whole man.

One night, deep into the winter, Mommy and I were in our living room. You were sleeping upstairs in your cribs.

With the soft lights of the Christmas tree behind me, I sat on the floor and told Mommy I was too broken. I begged her to take you and escape me.

In that moment, she jumped off the couch. Her hands wrapped around my face and she kept repeating, “You’re not broken.” My eyes flooded as my heart sank.

She never left my side, even in the darkest days.

Preparing For The World To End

After Mommy’s terminal diagnosis, I spent the next five years trying to prepare you for it. Each time you fought, I would remind you that we are a team and would need each other someday.

I wanted to build our strength to hold each other, before it was necessary for survival.

Mommy held us together. And when she was gone, we would have to hold each other together.

She protected us until her last moment. She did everything to keep the inward pain to herself, never letting it steal the joy and time we had left.

You are the gifts I’ve been given for the pain I have suffered. You carry her same strength, love, and power. It is there, always, for you to access.

You are her.

On Failing Those You Love

Over the years, I’ve learned that it’s not the failure that defines you. It’s the choice to repair.

This lesson was exemplified by the three of you.

I know I have failed you in many ways.

Whether it was all the painful lessons you were the recipients of as I learned to date.

The many nights I locked myself in my room–crying–when I fell so deep into my grief that I could barely even feed you.

Or the anger I carried around, when I was overwhelmed watching Mommy slowly die and I screamed at you. Scared you. Shamed you.

Despite it all, you have shown an undying compassion and forgiveness towards me.

You have taught me how to be a better dad, friend, and man.

Please, don’t take this lightly.

I am wholly better having you as my children.

And I will take all that compassion and forgiveness and magnify it in the world. I will show others that they are not alone.

Everything you have given me, I will use in my calling to help others.

You Are Whole; You Are You

I know you hurt, even when you don’t show it. But I will always be here to catch your tears and hold your pain.

We have been a team for seventeen years and became a team of four for the last five.

You are in the beginning phases of building a life outside our home.

You are discovering all the uniqueness and beauty you possess.

You are pushing against your boundaries and finding yourselves.

I will always miss our little team and hearing your laughter in our home, but I couldn’t be more proud.

You are truly, the most amazing kids and brilliantly beautiful humans.

My heart grows heavy thinking of our time spent traveling.

Our late night conversations at the kitchen counter.

And the shared pain we felt celebrating the anniversaries of Mommy’s death.

But the pride, love, and connection I feel to you far surpass the heaviness.

You are my soul, my heart, and my loves.

One ask as you build your own lives: carry your mother and me in your hearts.

No matter if we are here or not.

And thank you for your patience, forgiveness, and lessons.

My deepest gratitude and all my love,

- Pookie

P.S. If you’re carrying the weight of how you showed up—or didn’t—for your kids while you were lost in grief, I wrote Torn Pages From A Broken Heart which aims to help you know that you are not alone.

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Where have you found forgiveness, grace, and compassion in your life?

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If you enjoyed this read, the best compliment I could receive would be if you shared it with one person or restacked it.

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