Mom.

What she gave me. What I hope to give my son. And to you.

Before this day closes, I want to offer something personal and honest—for those that don’t mind a bit of vulnerability.

Hey,

Mother’s Day carries weight—for many, it’s a mix of joy, ache, memory, and distance.

Tonight, I want to invite you into a moment of reflection.

I wrote a letter to my mother. A personal one.
But I also wrote it knowing that all of us come to this day with different stories.

Some were raised by voices that stayed.
Some are still healing from silence or absence.
Some are trying to give their children more than they were given.

Wherever you are in that story—you’re welcome here.
This is a space to remember, to reflect, and maybe even to begin again.

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Mom,

You were probably the first to open this.
You always are. No matter the title.

Your unwavering support is the main reason I always get up and try again.

If I’ve never said this clearly, I’m saying it now:
Thank you.

Thank you for the way you read.
For the way you used your voice.
Thank you for the way you stayed.
Thank you for loving books, words, lyrics—
so deeply they became a regular part of our home.

I remember the way you studied.
Your highlights.
Your underlines.
Your cursive in the margins of most of the books you touched.
The notes you left inside the journals you gifted me.

You didn’t just read.
You modeled how to sit with a book.
You modeled respect for words and voice.

You were always willing to stand—
for what you believed,
for the truth you knew,
and for me.

Even when I pulled away.
Even when I didn’t know how to ask for you.

I don’t know if you know this—but I used to sneak your books off the shelves.
Your church fiction. Your Bible. Your book of prayers for women.
I read behind you.
Your notes and highlights intrigued me.

It always struck me—that your gift allowed you to write in cursive as beautifully as you sang.
Your voice lived on the page, too.
Even your handwriting sounded like you.

And even now, when I open my own Bible with Aidyn, I think of you.

Because I watched you.
Because I heard you.

Your voice had melody.
Your speech had rhythm.
Your handwriting looked like a song.

I will always remember your voice.
Always.

And because I know how powerful your voice is to me,
I want to leave that same power with Aidyn.

I might not walk around the house underlining books the way you did—
these days look different, with screens and distractions—
but I want him to remember my voice.

And I want every family who crosses paths with Reading To Connect
to feel what I felt:
That their voice matters.
That it stays.
That it’s not about saying the perfect thing—but about being present when it counts.

You didn’t teach a technique.
You just showed up. And you were always willing to stand.
And I felt it. I feel it.

Now I’m here—naming what you showed me.
Not just to honor you, your life, your voice—but to pass it forward.

You read and sang me into being.
You showed me that voice is legacy.

And because of you, I’m helping other families remember the same.

I love you.

And if Aidyn ever says his mother’s voice shaped him—
it will be because you shaped mine.

Quinn

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P.S. If this brought up ache, memory, or silence—I hope you know: you still get to shape something new. Your voice still matters. It always has.