💌 Dear Mom, I Didn't Mean to Be So Loud
Dear Mom,
I know I was the noisy one. The glitter bomb. The high heels on hardwood floors. The girl with the perfume you called “too much” and the laugh that echoed through rooms you preferred stayed quiet.
But I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.
I wasn’t trying to be difficult.
I was just trying to be seen.
You raised me with pressed collars and polite silences. You wore your lipstick like armor and never let the neighbors know you cried. You taught me how to pour tea, not how to spill truth. You said being a lady meant keeping things pretty, neat, contained.
And I—I was a mess from the start.
I left glitter in your carpets and questions on your face. I ruined stockings. I flirted too young. I wore dresses you didn’t approve of and moods that changed too often.
But I wasn’t being rebellious. I was being hopeful.
Hopeful that if I sparkled loud enough, someone would say, “You’re lovely just like this.”
You tried to shape me. Tried to smooth me. Tried to tuck me into the mold you were given.
And maybe you thought you were protecting me.
From judgment. From pain. From a world that doesn’t treat girls like me kindly.
But Mom— I wasn’t loud to defy you. I was loud to survive.
And I’m sorry. Not for who I was. But for the ways I made you feel like you failed.
You didn’t.
You were just trying to teach me how to disappear gracefully. And I was trying to learn how to be unforgettable.
We were both doing our best with the silence we inherited.
I love you.
Even if I didn’t fit into your quiet. Even if my perfume gave you a headache. Even if my laugh made you flinch at family dinners.
I love you for the way you always made sure I had clean dresses. For the nights you left the bathroom light on. For the times you brushed my hair and didn’t say a word.
I love you.
I just wanted you to love all of me, too.
Love always, Petunia