Letters I Never Sent

Over the years, I wrote many letters to my mum. Some were hopeful, written in the quiet hope that she might want to write back. Others were simply updates—telling her I was okay, that life was and that I was finding my way as Jane. But I posted none of them.

Still, I poured my heart into every letter. I’d sit on the sofa with pen and paper, fully aware that the envelope would never leave the house. On the days I came close to sending one, I’d stop myself. I imagined her opening it, reading the first few lines, and quietly throwing it away. Maybe I was wrong to think that. Maybe she would have read every word. But that’s what I believed, and that belief kept me silent.

Looking back, I think I was writing them for myself. It was a way to feel like she was still part of my life, even if only in my imagination. Each letter stitched her back into my day, even if just for a moment.

Some began with simple greetings: “Hi Mum, how’s Dad doing? Hope you’re both well.” I’d write about my day—what shops I’d visited in Bolton, what I’d worn, what I’d eaten. I’d tell her about my appointments at the gender clinic, how things were progressing, and how I was feeling. Sometimes I’d mention Tony—not that she didn’t know who he was, but I wanted her to know he was still here, that I wasn’t alone.

There was something comforting about the act of writing. It became a quiet ritual, a way to speak into the silence without breaking it. The letters were never sent, but they helped me hold myself together. They reminded me that love, even unspoken, still had a place.

But over time, I stopped. Not because I ran out of things to say—there was always something. A memory, a moment, a quiet ache. But each time I finished a letter and didn’t send it, it broke my heart a little more. What had once brought comfort began to feel like reopening a wound. So I stopped. Not out of anger, but out of tenderness. It was the only way I knew to protect what was left of me.