Listen, Mom: I'm sitting across from you at the kitchen counter, silently waiting to be served breakfast like any other Saturday morning.

My nose is buried in a book; I don't need my eyes to hear the unmistakeable sizzle of pancake batter hit the pan, or to picture smoke from the fried eggs get tangled in your unbrushed hair and white fuzz of your worn-down bathrobe.

I listen to the ceramic dishes stack on top of each other, the scratch scratch of the buttered knife over crunchy warm toast, and the sharp whistle of the kettle boiling.

As I listen to you juggle what people refer to as organized chaos, I can't help but feel this instant wave of guilt crash into my ribs – in my head: I'm drowning; it's those few seconds before death where clarity hits and whatever you've put into the Universe rushes back into you like the tide and you're sucked into this moment of retrospect, love, regret, and shame.

I want to say everything I'd ever wanted you to hear; my thoughts are a map with no routes; only full of hidden locations I've that been keeping from you – mental places I've been that you deserve to know about:

I haven't exactly been the best daughter to you.

When I come home past midnight, and your blood boiled because you said to be home before twelve – Please know that I didn't intentionally try to worry you or cause your heart to clench with stress. I forget that underneath the disappointment is broken trust and I crumble with guilt whenever it happens – because I should know better. But I don't – I'm still young and stupid and I make mistakes.

When you folded my clothes and left them on my bed, I didn't even thank you as I whined about how you didn't wash my favourite sweater. I'm consumed by own wants, and I've taken your constant giving for granted.

When you asked me to do something in the house, and I stomped around, shouting: "O-kay, mom. I'll do it later" - Please know I'm not putting you to the side because I have higher priorities, but because I forget you've already put nineteen years of your life aside to do things for me, but I can't even spend two minutes for you.

When you weren't doing anything out of the ordinary and you asked for a small favour, my voice turned into ice and I snapped: "What" - Please know that I'm not mad at you but I need space to clear my head and gather my thoughts.

When I told you: "It's not fair", I often forgot that comparison doesn't get me anywhere and I end up with sour thoughts about my upbringing and discourage the things you fought hard for me.

Every time I screamed: "You just don't understand" and tears were running down my cheeks and my eyes turned puffy and red, know it isn't that I forget you love me, but I forget you were once a teenager too.

I'm scared that your children are the cause of your heartaches and that we are too selfish to accept the extra weight we carry – that our love comes with struggle, that taking care of us is draining, that we should be responsible and mature enough to shed these added pounds of stress; but as we get older, I learned it's harder to shake off the weight we've gradually accumulated over the years; the habits we didn't bother to correct; we got lazy and comfortable with the problems we hanged by our hips so we continue to make the same mistakes, thinking it's not a big deal.

But I know it is – I'm certain; I'm still scared; we should know better.

I'm scared that after I leave, and you will have nothing left to care for and you will be consumed by worry and get lost in the void you can't bring yourself to fill.

But I'm happy that leaving may mean our extra weight will lift off your shoulders and you don't have to worry, and your heart won't clench as much as it does.

I'm sorry, mom – that I forget to wash the dishes after dinner, that I forget to put my shoes on the mat when I get home, that I forget to tell you I'm staying out past midnight.

I'm sorry, mom – that I lie to you so you don't worry, that I lie when I say 'everything is fine' so you won't be disappointed in me, that I lie when I promise to be with someone that deserves me as I still kiss the wrong boys.

I'm sorry, mom – that I forget where I came from, that I forget you are human and can be hurt by what I say, that I forget one day you will be gone – and I will be alone.

But even when I start my own family; chase my daughter around the house, run out of breath walking up the stairs, and find my seventh grey hair:

Know that I will never forget how to love you.

But loving you doesn't make me a better daughter – we still hurt the people we love.

No number of apologies can make up for the mistakes I will make in this lifetime – I'm bound to break again; it's not due to the way I was raised but I understand humans are made to struggle; it's a part of survival; we evolve through pain.

Whatever you are going through isn't meant to be easy – failure and pain is part of success; we are meant to embrace growing pains and not complain about what went wrong but practice how to heal.

Listen, Mom: I promise I will be a better daughter.

You don't want us to turn into you, you want us to be...ourselves; thank you for that choice; I promise to not live the life you could not fulfill but continue to pave my own path inspired by your grace.

You don't try to make us perfect, you try to be there when we struggle; I promise to never let go of your hand when it gets tough – because who knows how long we have left.

You taught me how to love, now I want to teach you how to love yourself.

You're stuck – you want to move forward but life takes you by the ankles and sets you three steps behind; 'Wait your turn,' it says, 'Your time will come', it says, 'Just a few more years.' So you tell yourself, 'I'll do it later.'

You taught me to go after my dreams so why are you holding back yours?

You see a number and dollar signs as a barrier, but I see a woman with talent; your heart can start the most brilliant fire that can light up country in the darkest hour, a rampant soul that can move mountains; your words set off explosive creativity where people bleed colour into a world that has grown up seeing grey.

When I'm gone – thousands of miles away – I hope you read this letter, think of me and you on our path of struggle, resilience, and growth; and it inspires you to surround yourself with nothing but inspiration and good people, to hold yourself accountable for the dreams you're still chasing, to strengthen and be kind to your body because you were given only one.

Promise me you will stay faithful to your body. Your body is your friend and you must be kind to it and treat it with respect like you would towards the people you care about. Your body does everything for you; it pumps air into your lungs so you don't have to count down to your last breath, it gives your brain a home so you can manifest insightful thoughts and curate dreams, it is the muscle that lets you smile when you feel like it; it's the reason you can see your future grandchild; it is the reason you are alive.

Take care of it; taking care of yourself is taking care of us;

Because I am you; we are made up of the same atoms and stars that course through your veins, we are bred from your lust and energy; our deepest instincts are intertwined; we are linked by a brilliant divine power and intimate connection; we live vicariously through each other's feelings.

I watch you slide the pancake off the spatula and onto my plate. You slide it under my nose, the warmth of the pancake hugs my chin, and I look down to see you had carefully placed the chocolate chips into a smiley face.

I smile back at pancake so hard that my cheeks start to hurt.

The waves have stopped rolling in my stomach as the guilt subsides.

You tell me to stay home more and I say a home isn't about four walls and a roof; it isn't about the location, or where I grew up, or even the people in it; home is a feeling; it's body heat without flesh; it's intangible love and the most profound sense of comfort.

So next time you walk into my empty bedroom and feel like I'm not there, know that I am;

You're forever with me;

Because you are my home.  

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Author Note: Tell someone, it can your mother, father - anyone that nurtures and cares for you and perhaps you take them for granted, that you love them. Right now. A text. Phone call. Conversation.  

Share this piece with them. Tag them. 

What you put into the Universe is what you are, so let's start putting kindness out there and it will come back to you in the most beautiful forms. :)