The Silence Between Us
A young woman struggles coming out to her devout Catholic mother. The story reflects on the deep silence that grew between them, the letters he wrote but never sent, and the emotional journey of reconciling faith with love.
Her eyes still held traces of the struggle she was facing, but for the first time in years, I saw hope in them. We were healing, not because we had all the answers, but because we were finally speaking the truth.
I had always been rather near to my mother. She was my lighthouse and guide from early life. Except for one area of mine that got heavier with every year, we shared everything. The gulf separating us grew as I came to see I was different. Her daughter, the one she had christened in the church and prayed for every night, liked women, and I had no idea how to tell her. I worried what her beliefs might cause her to do with her love, not so much about her love for me.
Between us, the stillness seemed oppressive. She felt I was hiding something, but neither of us had the bravery to knock down the barrier. Our once-easy talks about friends, school, and life grew cautious as if we were walking around something delicate. Her eyes glowed with anxiety, and her hands shook when she held mine. Still, I could not voice the words.
Letters Never Sent
I would sit at my desk at night staring at blank sheets of paper. Though I wanted to tell her so many things, I had no idea where to start. How can you explain something that, to her, seemed to be a betrayal of what she thought?
I began a correspondence with her. I told her the truth about who I was, how long I had known, and how much I yearned I could be really honest with her. I wrote about the restless evenings and the anxiety that kept me mute. I clarified that I was not confused or broken and that this was not a phase. Loving someone of the same gender did not lessen me as her daughter.
But I never emailed them. Every letter was crumbled and thrown into the garbage. What if they wounded her more than I could have ever imagined? What if they broke the link we had been creating over the years? I stayed quiet thinking about her looking disappointed or worse—rejection.
A Mother’s Love or Expectation?
Life for my mother revolved around the church. Her world moved to Sunday Mass, nighttime prayers, and rosary recitals. She always talked about love—God’s love, the love of a mother. Still, her love came with expectations. She dreams of me, a picture-perfect existence with a spouse, kids, and a house blessed by God. I was her future, her hope for carrying on the legacy of her family.
Coming out made me afraid I would destroy the picture. Would her love for me hold given the lessons of her faith? Could she keep her daughter apart from the “sin” she considered?
Sometimes I noticed her staring at me as if she knew something was amiss but couldn’t pinpoint it. She would inquire, “Is everything alright, my love?” and I would force a grin and nod as the reality remained trapped behind my lips. She loved me, and I knew that love could not bear the weight of my reality.
Healing the Distance
When I got home one evening, she was seated on the couch clutching a letter I hadn’t meant for her to see. As I realized it—the letter I had penned weeks ago but had thrown away—my heart stopped. It had somehow returned to her hands. Her eyes were crimson from sobbing, her face was pallid.
She looked up at me, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Uncertain of how to explain, I stood still The words had eluded me for so long, but now as I stood in front of her I could not run.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I whispered, tears already forming. “I was scared you wouldn’t understand.”
There was just silence for a split second. She then got to her feet, came over, and encircled me with arms. “I am your mother,” she added gently. Nothing will ever change that either.
Though it was not the answer I had anticipated, it was not total acceptance either. Her suffering was weighty and I could sense it. She was injured, not enraged. Not by who I was, but by the fact I kept it from her.
The next weeks were not simple. Difficult talks, tears, and times when I believed the barrier separating us would never close. But gradually we started to heal. She probed me about my life, my love, and the length of time I had felt this way. She was trying, however I could sense she was still adjusting her religion with her love for me.
She grasped my hand one evening as we sat in silence and whispered, “I may not understand everything right now, but I will always love you.” I am sure about this.
Her eyes still held traces of the struggle she was facing, but for the first time in years, I saw hope in them. We were healing, not because we had all the answers, but because we were finally speaking the truth.
And seeing through my mother’s eyes, I started to see her bravery as much as her love.
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