A Letter to My 8-Year-Old Self: Living 36 Years Without My Mom

Matt Gilhooly (00:00) Hello my friends, I just wanted to record a special bonus episode today to share something important, something I feel is super vulnerable, and also something that has felt pretty incomplete up until now. So today marks 36 years since my mom died, September 1st, 1989, which means that I've lived far more years without her than I ever did with her. And sometimes that reality makes her feel less like a person that I knew and more like a figment or maybe a presence that I can't quite hold on to Because those memories have faded around the edges. Still, her absence has shaped pretty much every corner of my life and it's the reason I see the world in the way that I do. It's the reason this podcast even exists. And usually I sit here listening to someone else share their story of a before and after a line in the sand moment. At the very end of the life shift conversation, I asked my guests what they would tell an earlier version of themselves about the journey ahead. So on this 36th anniversary, I want to answer that question for myself. And I want to do it by sharing a letter publicly that I wrote to the boy that I was when everything changed. the eight-year-old me who lost his mom. All right, here's a letter to eight-year-old me. If I could sit beside you right now, you, the version of me sitting in that Georgia office chair in 1989, legs dangling, heart racing, not yet knowing the words that were about to shift your world forever, I don't think I'd say much. I wouldn't try to make sense of it all. I wouldn't rush to reassure you. I would just sit with you quietly, long enough for you to know that you didn't have to go through it alone. I think I'd offer a hug. the kind that lasts way too long and says everything without actually saying anything. And maybe, eventually, I would whisper, you don't have to grow up so fast. You don't owe anything to anyone but yourself. And most importantly, you are allowed to cry, to break, to feel it all. I wish someone had told you that back then, like really told you. Not with the words, but with presence with the kind of safety that lets tears fall without the shame. I wish someone had said you're allowed to be exactly where you are. Loud, quiet, confused, angry. You don't have to make anyone else comfortable. But instead you learn to perform strength. You saw the sadness in other people's eyes and decided maybe even without realizing it that your job was to make them feel okay. So you became the straight A student. the polite kid, the performer. You stuffed your pain into places you didn't even know existed, and maybe you even made it look easy. But I know now that it wasn't. I've spent decades trying to understand why it took me so long to actually fall apart, why the grief stayed locked in for so many years. But of course it did. You thought that breaking down meant being left behind again. And that kind of fear is strong enough to hold a whole body together. But here's the truth, you didn't break then, not fully, not until you were 16 sitting on your bed, music echoing through your room, putting the pain into words for the first time. And you thought it was just an assignment, but truthfully, it was something bigger. It was the first time you let yourself feel the full weight of the loss and it cracked you open. That paper felt like therapy, but it also felt like danger. Because once the grief spilled out, you didn't know how to shove it back in. You didn't know how to carry what you had always been hiding. So you did what you knew. You tried to find control in your body, in your food, in your perfectionism, and in your silence. You didn't have the tools to hold it all, but you tried. You really tried. I've read what you wrote in the years that followed. All those letters and poems and reflections. The ache is so clear. And so is the hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe, it all meant something. That maybe someday, the journey wouldn't feel like punishment. I want you to know that someday did come. I've spent the last few years learning how to let go of the story that says I have to earn love. I've unlearned the rules you were handed. And I've started living for me. Not for approval, not for applause, just for the truth. And here's something pretty crazy. Your story has helped others. You have helped others, even when you were still hurting. Through the life shift, I've watched strangers become less alone because someone dared to speak their truth. I've seen how stories, even messy, unfinished ones, can heal. And every time I sit across from someone and really listen, I feel closer to you. I feel like I'm doing for others what I wish someone had done for us. Sometimes I imagine what mom would say if she knew about this podcast and heard some of the conversations that I am lucky enough to have. I think she'd be embarrassed by how much I've shared because she was a quiet soul, but I hope she'd also feel proud. I hope she'd see that this isn't just about grief. It's about what comes after. It's about the ways we rebuild. the ways we honor our pain without letting it define us. So you made it, little one. We both did. And we're still unfolding, one honest moment at a time. So today, I will say the words you said to mom on that last phone call, the words I know she carried with her, I love you. And I'll say them to you too. I love you. I always have. I always will. because you deserve to hear that back then and you deserve to hear them now. Love, a slightly more grown-up Matt. Thirty-six years without her feels almost impossible to grasp. And yet here I am, still messing up, still unfolding, still finding new ways to live with loss and love side by side. But sharing this with everyone feels like maybe another small act of healing and another piece of the story that that eight-year-old boy just could never have imagined. So thank you for listening. and for holding this space with me for this story and for all the stories that I am so fortunate to have on the LifeShift Podcast. I hope you'll subscribe and do all those things and help honor that eight-year-old in me, honor my mom, my grandmother, and all the beautiful people that have just allowed me to bear witness to their stories.