Don’t tell anyone.
I could see both fear and anger on her face as she lit her third cigarette with trembling hands.
There was a wall between us.
I wanted to feel loved—worthy of life, worthy of being noticed.
But on that day, it was clear:
My pain was inconvenient. Embarrassing.
Easier to flush—like the sleeping pills and the vomit—than to face it.
How did we get here?
After 45 years, I can still remember all the details.
But that wound—once raw and hidden—has been softened by enduring love.
And so now, the details don’t matter as much.
But the lesson does.
Because someone else might still be forced into silence,
wondering if their life matters.
And they need to hear this:
You have worth.
Even when the people who should have seen you couldn’t.
I believe silence has killed more people’s spirits than any war.
Being forced to silence pain turns it inward—until it becomes guilt, then shame.
Speaking it though, that’s how we begin to heal.
I told. She didn’t.
She never told me what haunted her, but the ghosts were loud anyway.
I never got her version. I only had mine—and silence.
She was always upset. Anxious, at least at home.
She wore a different face for the outside world, smiling, and helpful.
But behind closed doors, she was sharp-tongued and contradictory.
Sometimes spiteful. Often unpredictable.
She had a temper that burned hot and fast,
and a backhand that stung.
And yet—most of the time, she just went about the business of living.
Working. Cooking. Smoking.
She laughed, sometimes.
She and Dad argued a lot.
She had a pretty good aim with her shoe—it was funny, until it wasn’t.
I loved her.
I respected her.
And I was scared of her.
Until that day.
After my mother told me to keep quiet about trying to kill myself, something in me snapped.
That was it.
My last chance at getting her to see me.
Some people—at that point—would’ve gone back and finished the job.
And honestly? Who could blame them?
But me?
No. I turned that moment into a big “fuck you.”
I decided I was on my own.
And, strangely enough, that was probably the best thing that could’ve happened to me.
I didn’t stay silent.
I told a youth minister, who introduced me to Jesus as a personal savior.
In time, Jesus introduced me to my husband, then my daughter,
and continues to show me a life worth living.
It wasn’t an easy path, and there was much more to that time in my life.
But in not being silent, I changed the trajectory of my life.
But Mom—she stayed silent.
My Mother’s Contradictions
My mother was shaped by her Irish Catholic upbringing.
All the stereotypes you’ve heard? They applied.
And yet she was a walking contradiction.
Contradiction #1: She was smart—sharp smart—but mostly worked in sandwich shops, as a clerk, or a telephone operator.
Contradiction #2: She took care of my dad, who was a loving man, but clearly not her intellectual equal. They fought mightily.
Contradiction #3: I saw my father kiss her once in a while, but there wasn’t much romance. When he brought her wildflowers, she’d roll her eyes. She usually slept on the couch.
Contradiction #4: She made us go to confession and dragged us to Mass every Sunday but never took communion herself.
Contradiction #5: My father kept a photo of a young girl in his wallet—someone who looked like a high school graduate. I never knew why.
There were probably more.
These are just the ones I noticed.
The ones I asked about, and was told to leave alone.
Or, “None of your business.”
Or just… silence.
My Mother’s Story, As I Understand It
It wasn’t until after her death—thirty-some years later—that I began to understand the cost of her silence.
The shape of it. The weight of it. The things she buried and never spoke of.
Secrets revealed:
- Secret #1: My mother would have liked to go to nursing school.
- Secret #2: She got pregnant outside of marriage.
- Secret #3: My parents were never actually married.
- Secret #4: I had a stepsister—she died when I was six.
- Secret #5: My father had been married before.
The whispers became voices.
Each revelation peeled back another layer of the woman I never truly knew.
But I began to understand her—her contradictions, her silence, her bitterness.
And with each one, I started to decipher why she stayed silent.
The Church Behind the Silence
To understand her silence, you have to understand the Catholic Church. Back in the 1940s and ’50s, the Catholic Church was crystal clear on marriage and sex—and it didn’t leave much room for nuance.
Marriage wasn’t just a promise—it was a sacrament, a sacred, unbreakable covenant between a man and a woman. It was for life. No do-overs. You got married to stay married, to have kids, and to honor God.
Sex outside of marriage? That wasn’t just frowned upon—it was a grave sin, a serious offense against God.
If you didn’t confess and repent, you risked your salvation.
You were cut off from communion, from reconciliation, from grace.
The fear of hell was real, and it was close.
Marrying a non-Catholic?
If they weren’t baptized—say, Jewish—the marriage was considered invalid unless you got a formal dispensation from the bishop.
Without it, your marriage didn’t “count.”
Marrying a divorced person? Even worse.
If their first spouse was still alive, the Church didn’t recognize the divorce.
You were in what they considered an adulterous relationship—locked in a state of grave sin, with no access to the sacraments unless the first marriage was annulled. And annulments were rare.
Bottom line?
If you crossed those lines, you didn’t just break a rule—you broke your place in the Church.
And the Church made sure you felt it.
This was the world my mother was raised in.
And yet, she fell in love with a divorced, Jewish, German man.
Because of those teachings, I believe, my mother found no freedom—only shame and guilt.
I came to understand her silence wasn’t stubbornness.
It was survival.
So yes, that explains her secrets.
And it explains her bitterness.
I grieve what the Catholic Church taught her—how it burdened her with shame instead of freeing her with grace.
Because here’s what I’ve learned:
In not being silent, I discovered that God actually loves us—not just tolerates us through rules.
If she had felt she could go to God just as she was,
He would’ve told her: You are loved.
He would’ve blessed her union.
And her children.
Instead, she lived a life bound by guilt and shame.
And somehow, understanding that now, hurts even more than her not seeing me then.
Somewhere along the way, my older brother and sister figured out about my mom’s marriage.
Did she tell them? I still don’t know.
But I am glad they knew and showed my mom grace.
A Bittersweet Ending
My mom’s story had a bittersweet end.
On her deathbed, unbeknownst to the rest of us, my sister found a priest and a rabbi to marry them.
She told me later that Mom beamed with the biggest smile.
Finally, in this life—for one sacred moment—she was free.
If You’re Holding Secrets
There is a grand lesson here, about connection and people, that I will go on to talk about later; but first—
If you have secrets, tell someone you trust.
God already knows your pain, your fear, your hurt.
He has someone near you right now who can help you,
who will sit in your silence with you, so you do not have to be alone.
This shame and guilt are a fallacy—
it is a lie the deceiver tells to keep you from grace and from God.
God loves you.
He wants peace for you—not performance.
He wants your heart, not your silence.
So, tell.
Speak.
Cry out.
Because someone else might be standing where you once stood,
wondering if their life matters.
And your story—spoken out loud—might just be the truth that sets them free
The Pondering Place 