15/12/2025
Sometimes, healing comes to us in the smallest of gestures - a conversation, a memory, a message quietly handed over.
This week, my daughter shared a letter with me and her little sisters:
🪻To my Daughter, from your Dad in Heaven🪻
"My wish for you is that you are embraced in all the light and love that this world has to offer.
Although you can no longer see me, I want you to know that I am still very much a part of your life, forever watching you from the sky. Please remember that I have loved every precious moment that I had with you, my sweet daughter. I am so lucky to be your dad. I am your guardian angel now, always protecting you just as I did on earth. When you find yourself missing me, I hope you look to your heart because that is where you will find me. I have left all the best pieces of me with you and I know you will use them to look ahead to the brighter days.
Never forget that you are strong enough to make it through any storm that comes your way. I am with you through every struggle, every sorrow and every happy moment. Take some time to stop and look around at all the beauty that still remains. Never stop dreaming and always share your love with the world, just as you shared it with me.
You will always be my little girl.
Dad"
🤍
What makes this letter extraordinary is not only what it says - but that she was able to read it, feel it, and share it.
My daughter has carried a kind of pain that almost broke her. She was only six years old when her daddy was taken from her in a way no child should ever have to survive. The trauma was too big, too overwhelming for her young mind to make sense of. And so, as trauma often does, it took over. It protected her. It pushed her into survival mode - not grief mode.
For years, she avoided feeling the loss because the trauma was simply too enormous. When trauma takes the front seat, grief gets locked away in the back. Her brain did what it had to do to keep her going. And because of this, the grief that should have been allowed to unfold gently never had the chance to.
But this past year… something shifted.
She began to face what once felt impossible. Slowly and courageously, she started to look at the parts of her story she had tucked away for so long. And as the trauma loosened its grip, the grief began to rise.
This letter isn’t just a message she shared.
It is evidence of how far she has come.
It shows that she now feels safe enough - emotionally, mentally, and in her own body to let his memory in. To let love in. To let grief in. To allow herself to miss him without being swallowed by trauma’s shadow.
It shows that she is stepping into a new chapter of healing, one where she doesn’t have to survive every moment, one where she can finally begin to feel.
As her mother, I see the incredible courage behind this. I see the years of silent battles. I see the strength. I see the hope.
And I am so proud of her.
Not because she is “better,” or “fixed,” or “moved on.”
But because she is finally unburdening the weight she was forced to carry far too young.
Because she is allowing herself to be soft.
Healing doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it whispers.
Sometimes it hands you a letter.
And sometimes, it is simply a daughter saying, “Mom… I want you to read this.”
And that moment alone is a miracle.
Love, Mariandra 🤍
