Sometimes Silence Says Everything
And That’s Why I Should Talk About It in Therapy. Instead, I Wrote About It.
I wrote a piece the other day about my mom hid herself away from us when we were young—when we needed her the most.
How she’d shut the door and pretend everything was fine when, clearly, it was not. I talked about how hard it was to be in that space at eight, especially while dealing with the abuse from my brother—abuse that was never explained to me because I didn’t get the sex talk until after I said “I do” to the man I married. But even then, it wasn’t a warning from my mother on how to navigate the needs of men. It was from my father, who was excited that my husband would finally be able to “get his fill.”
He explained to me how much of it would be happening now.
I don’t remember the words—only the look of lust on my father’s face as he explained this to me while I stood in front of him in a white dress.
After sharing the piece about my mother, I thought she’d magically become the person I needed. That after reading it, she’d rush over to my house—speeding if necessary—and hug me with the weight of all those missed hugs, the ones she withheld when she was too overwhelmed by the reality of learning how to be a mother for the first time. That by now, with all her children grown, she would clearly see the missteps she took and fill the hollowed holes she left behind with her compassion and comfort.
Instead, I got a sad face on the link I shared on Facebook.
No comment. No phone call. No text.
A sad face.
I didn’t write this piece for her. It wasn’t intended to be anything more than relief for me. And honestly I forgot that she’d even see it. So when I got the notification of the sad face, I stared at it on my tiny screen and felt the immediate regret of shame.
I became that little girl again, standing in front of my mother’s bedroom, hands shaking as I slipped the note of my needs under the door.
But this time, instead of silence, she slightly opened the door. I saw her waiting on the other side, note in hand—sad that I had even mentioned the need to be loved. As if she had already given all she could. As if asking for more was unreasonable.
I shared my disbelief with my own child and watched him cringe when I mentioned the sad face.
When he asked what I expected, I told him I didn’t expect anything. That, to be honest, I had forgotten she would even see it.
I guess I just needed to be seen—by others, by myself.
I needed to feel the weight of my childhood fall from my shoulders. I needed to be free from the burden of their imprint on me. I needed to move forward without having to hold onto the unsaid secrets that kept locking me in that house—where I became a woman far too soon for a little body to handle.
I cried at the thought that she was facing the realization that she wasn’t the mother she wanted to be. That I had put into words the fear she had held onto for years—and in doing so, made it the truth.
Because when she first learned about the abuse—when I was 17, maybe 18—she told me she had no idea. She said she wished she had known, that she would have been there for me.
And I comforted her. I told her, How would you know, Mom? How?
But all I ever wanted to ask was—How didn’t you know?
The other day, I was cleaning out boxes hastily packed by the restoration crew after our basement flooded. As I sifted through them, I stumbled upon old notebooks—filled with poems and writings from my teenage years.
I was encapsulated by these forgotten moments, written by hand in my own voice. I scoured the pages, reading with a hunger, only to find more stories of abuse—different boyfriends, the same wounds. And woven through it all, the naivety of my mother.
I even found a note I had written to her. A silent scream inked onto the pages, demanding to know how, even after learning about my brother, she continued to choose him. How she invited me to his birthday party. How she let him call me from her phone after I had blocked his number.
I had been in disbelief then.
And now, as I read these old words, that same disbelief washed over me.
But as I read them, all I could think about was that sad face.
My mother and I don’t have a strained relationship. We talk, we laugh, we share moments of joy. Every so often, she’d watch my kids when I called and asked.
And now, I worry about the awkward silence that will follow.
Because I aired the dirty laundry for thousands of people to read.
And I wonder—was the sad face only clicked in hopes that others would see it as acknowledgment? A way to say, See? I read it. I know. I care.
Was it her way of proving—to them, to herself—that she had, in fact, rebuilt the love I needed as a child? That no one could say she didn’t try?
I don’t know what I need, but I do know that her absence hits harder now.
No phone call.
No homemade meal placed on my doorstep.
Not even a simple text—Hey, Audrey, I read your post. Wanna grab lunch and tell me about it?
Nothing.
Nothing but a sad face.
And the regret of shame that comes with it.
The other day, I read a post about how we are all unlearning from our mothers’ wounds. How each generation considers themselves a chain-breaker of some sort.
And I know this to be true.
Because I am constantly aware of the chains I am trying to break with my own children.
What’s hard about this knowing is the silence I have with my own mother—the absence of any real conversation about what she unlearned. The understanding that whatever she experienced as she grew was locked away in secrets of her own making.
To have conversations with depth beyond what we already do would require her to break more chains than she knows how to handle. And to ask that of her—to demand more than she can give—feels like stepping back into a role I swore I’d leave behind.
There’s a saying that we can only do as much as we know how. But the willingness to learn more requires letting go of the belief that we didn’t know better.
Because yes, maybe when I was eight—living in a home smothered by my abuser—neither of us knew better.
But you’d hope that after 30 years or so, we’d have found a new way to be.
I love my mother. I love the relationship we do have.
This piece was never meant to change that. I wasn’t trying to rebuild something broken, because nothing between us felt broken—at least, not in a way that I needed to fix. I understood the way we existed together, and I was okay with it.
But now, I don’t know.
I don’t know if I burned a bridge I didn’t even realize was there. If by exploring the depths of my childhood, I accidentally set fire to something I thought was solid ground.
Because her silence feels like something final.
It feels like a door quietly closing, like a wall being built brick by brick while I stand on the other side, unsure whether I should knock or just let it be.
And yet, it wasn’t just silence.
She did respond.
A sad face.
A single, hollow reaction left on the post where I poured myself open. A tiny yellow face meant to sum up something too big for an emoji to hold. It wasn’t a message. It wasn’t a phone call. It wasn’t Hey, Audrey, I read your post—do you want to talk?
It was a sad face. And now I don’t know what to do with that.
Maybe this silence isn’t new. Maybe I’ve always been waiting for her to say something that never came.
I think back to all the times I needed words from her, the moments I stood in the quiet, hoping she’d find a way to fill it. When I was little, I waited outside her bedroom door, my hands gripping some hastily written note I was too afraid to say out loud. A plea for attention. For comfort. For something I couldn’t name at the time.
Sometimes, I’d slide the note under. Sometimes, I’d crumple it up and walk away.
Now, it feels like I’ve done it again—only this time, the note is public, and the silence on the other side of the door is louder than ever.
Except this time, she picked up the note. She read it. She looked at all the words I had finally found the courage to write.
And instead of opening the door, she slid a sad face back under it.
And I don’t even know what I want from her. An explanation? A conversation? An argument? Maybe nothing. Maybe just proof that we can survive this silence, that we can hold this truth between us and not let it unravel what still exists.
Maybe I’ll talk about it in therapy. Maybe I’ll untangle the discomfort, the shame, the sadness of knowing she read my words and said nothing. Maybe I’ll figure out what to do with the regret of speaking truths I didn’t expect her to hear.
Or maybe I’ll just sit with it.
Maybe I’ll learn to live with the silence.
Because I think, deep down, I always knew—
She was never going to open the door.
I write from the places that linger—the truths we carry, the silence that follows, the moments that don’t wrap up neatly. If you’re here, it’s probably because something in these words hit you in that deep, quiet place where recognition lives. I share my vulnerability, not because it’s easy, but because it’s real. Because we all have stories that deserve to be spoken. If that’s the kind of space you want to be in, I’d love for you to subscribe.
That sad face is definitely shame. And because you're breaking chains and exposing not only yourself but also her she's violently embarrassed, regretful and ashamed. But like many women who lacked the courage or coping skills she can't say anything, because she still lacks those things. She's like a bug trapped in amber. That's my hot take of course not knowing all the nuance. She loves you, and yet, she failed. She failed. It's a lot for someone to sit with. Great writing! Very tender and raw. Keep breaking the chains. I do think this is how we do it.