The Card I Forgot to Send...Again

A few mornings ago, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I had a memory that shook me enough that I had to sit in my car curbside in front of the house just to catch my breath and stay with the memory, and the stroll that God was asking me to join him on in that moment.

I remembered a card I didn’t send…over twenty-seven years ago.

The memory that followed? A phone conversation the week after that unmailed card should have been delivered. An email had arrived the hour prior, and I called to find out what I had done wrong. Why was I reading that I was being ‘disowned,’ along with everyone related to me (Ironic, since everyone involved was my family)? What had I done? (I didn't even remember forgetting to send a card.) I could hear the harsh words again; the ones spoken into the universe hours after the emailed words had already been sent and read. As the conversation came back to me, so did the sting of relationships unraveling, involving more people than just the person whose important day I had forgotten. And the feeling of utter powerlessness to fix it.

I tried.

I could acknowledge and own that I hadn't sent the card. I could apologize for it. What I couldn't do was make reconciliation happen by myself. I could take responsibility for my part, but I couldn't make anyone be willing to take the next step with me.

But that morning, something else undid me. Another layer peeled back as I continued to swim in the currents of self-discovery and self-awareness: ADHD didn't arrive when I was diagnosed last year. I had been living with it my whole life, back then, too. I just didn't know it. I sat there, in the car, in front of our house, wondering what that younger version of me, and the even younger version of her, needed. And grieving that neither she nor the people closest to her knew to ask.

This year has been two kinds of fire as I have navigated a midlife diagnosis, lots of therapy sessions, new medication, and all the ‘normal’ things of life. Those two are: an absolutely raging dumpster fire and a fantastically welcoming, comforting fireplace fire. And if I am super honest, there's been very little in between. (Here’s to 2027 being the year of simple candlelight fire!)

As I put in the time and effort to find good ways to flourish with my new ‘life navigation hacks,’ I am also processing things from my childhood, teen, and early adult years that shaped how I saw myself then, and how I fight not to see myself now. I have experienced God's grace in the pace of this work, in the room he provides to take one layer at a time. Seeing Stacy as a child in my memories is one of the hardest layers to navigate because I can now see so many things she needed. I can't know what would have changed if she'd received them, but I can grieve that she needed them.

This forgetting stuff has always been part of me, even as I've learned to use notepads, planners, and, praise the Lord, cell phone alarms and calendar apps! I'm upfront about it: if you tell me something and you don't see me write it down or email me about it, you should wonder whether I will remember that specific thing or just that I love the way Lucky Charms tastes! Now I have a name for the struggle and better ways to manage life with it…mostly!

However, as a girl, it was usually under the radar. And when it wasn't, people saw me forgetting as irresponsibility or inconsideration. They saw my clutter and disorganization as laziness. No one around me, including me, seemed to understand why remembering could be so hard, especially when something wasn't immediate or urgent. ‘Why can't you be more like…’ was a familiar phrase, with some other child's name filling in the blank. Over time, it became easier to believe there was something wrong with me than to wonder whether I needed a different kind of help.

To be fair, I'm navigating this as an almost-60-year-old Gen Xer. In the world I grew up in, ADD/ADHD was something people associated with boys, when they recognized it at all. I didn't have language for what was happening to me, and keeping my head down seemed like the safest way to get through (I’m guessing most girls with a similar experience did the same). But I wonder: What would it have looked like if I had learned tools as a child, a high school kid, or a younger adult? What would it have meant for the people around me to ask curious questions and dig deeper before assuming I was willful, broken, or just plain rude?

These questions are also asking something of me now. When someone forgets, disappoints me, or responds in a way I don't understand, will I leave room to ask what I might be missing? I know what it feels like to have an omission treated as a verdict on my character (oh, how I know, even several times just this week!). I want that knowledge to make me more curious about other people, even when I need to address something that hurts.

And I'm learning that I can bring all of this into my life with Jesus. The Psalms give me words for grief, protest, and questions that don't resolve before the prayer ends. I don't have to make an old wound sound smaller before I bring it to God. I can ask him to help me see honestly, including where I caused hurt and where I absorbed judgments I need to reconsider. Grace gives me room to tell the truth and stay long enough to learn from it.

For me, growth looks like using the tools I have now, apologizing when one is mine to make, and recognizing when repair requires participation I can't provide. It also looks like noticing when an old accusation starts speaking in my own voice and asking whether it deserves my agreement. I want to be able to remember that younger girl without joining the chorus of people disappointed in her.

I wonder how many of us would benefit from giving our own stories this kind of attention, with a counselor or someone wise and trustworthy beside us when we need help. The conclusions we drew about ourselves years ago can still shape how we receive love, handle mistakes, and respond to people today. Looking back can help us recognize those patterns and choose how to move forward. We may even become gentler with someone whose struggle we haven't yet understood.

I'm still sorting through what was mine to own, what I couldn't control, and what I understand differently now. No neat little blog post bow to tie. I'm still processing and learning to trust God with the pace, including the days when all I can do is name what hurts. I can be thankful for what I'm learning and sad about what I missed. For now, I'm making room for both, and for whatever I may come to understand next.

A prayer for the child we remember
God who knew us before we had words for our struggles, look tenderly on the children we once were.
Honor the needs we couldn't name and the help we didn't know to ask for.
We praise you for the gift of slow memories, for understanding that can arrive even in a car going to work.
Meet us in the grief of what we missed, and help us receive your love there.
Teach us to own our part with courage and treat ourselves and others with mercy.
Walk with us as we grow, at a pace we can bear, held in your patient love. Amen.

Photo by Philippe Murray-Pietsch on Unsplash