Book Snippet: The Things We Didn’t Say

It started as a simple plan. A weekend away with a few old friends from our teenage years, something we had talked about for years but never managed to make happen. Everyone agreed at first. But as the weekend drew closer, one by one, people canceled. Life got in the way, work, family, exhaustion.

In the end, it was just the two of us who went. At first, it felt like a small disappointment. We had imagined a group of us, laughter, stories, the comfort of old familiarity. Instead, we arrived to quiet.

We opened a bottle of wine, something neither of us drinks much anymore, and sat at a weathered picnic table outside the cabin. The evening air was oddly warm for a fall day. The woods were calm, and the stillness felt both unfamiliar and welcome. We thought the weekend would be full of activity, maybe hikes, maybe drives to nearby places that would remind us of being young again. But we didn’t do much of anything except talk.

At first, it was light. We laughed about old memories, shared updates about our families, compared how much we had both changed and how much we hadn’t. But as the hours stretched, the tone shifted. The conversation deepened naturally, like the way water finds a lower place without being told to move.

Then it happened. In the middle of talking about our teenage years, something clicked. We realized that we had both lived through something heavy, the same kind of trauma, at the same age. Not on the same day but close enough that it might as well have been. The timing, the pain, the silence…it all lined up.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. We just sat there, trying to absorb what that meant. All those years, we had been right beside each other, carrying the same kind of hurt, thinking the other one was fine.

The air felt heavier, quieter. We both stared at each other…. what felt like way too long. I felt a lot of guilt and a huge wave of sadness all of the sudden. I could feel tears forming in that moment. Then, she asked what I was thinking. I said: “I feel so bad that we didn’t we tell each other this.”

It came out soft, but it carried decades of weight. Why didn’t we see it? Why didn’t we trust each other with the truth? Why did we both think we were alone in something that was breaking us?

There were tears, but not from anger. They came from recognition. From the shock of realizing how much of our lives had been shaped by something we never talked about. We had been misunderstood then, by friends, by family, sometimes even by each other. We learned to hide the pain because that was what everyone seemed to do. We smiled through it, convinced that silence was strength.

Talking about it now was painful but also freeing. We filled in the missing pieces for each other, explaining moments that had never made sense. I understood things about her that I never had, and she understood me in return. It was as if we had been walking through the same dark tunnel all those years ago, just on different sides of the wall.

We both said that if we had spoken back then, we could have saved each other from at least part of it. Not all, but some. That realization carried guilt, but also healing. Because now, by finally speaking it aloud, we gave our younger selves something they never had; comfort, understanding, and proof that they were never as alone as they thought.

After that, I looked at her differently. Not as the girl I remembered, but as a woman who had survived her own battles with grace. And I think she looked at me the same way. There was no pity between us, only mutual respect, the kind that comes from seeing someone fully and being seen in return.

We talked about how that time in our lives shaped us as mothers. How those experiences made us more protective, more aware, more determined to create openness for our children. We admitted we are still learning, still working through old patterns, but we agreed that our history gave us empathy. We listen differently now. We look closer. We recognize pain, even when it hides behind a smile.

Later, we talked about the people we don’t hear from anymore. Friends we thought we’d always have. Years ago, that would have hurt. Now, it doesn’t. The circle has grown smaller, but it feels more genuine. We no longer chase connection; we honor the peace that comes from the people who stay.

The weekend was nothing like what we planned, but it was exactly what we needed. No adventures, no group laughter, no noise. Just two women, a picnic table, a bottle of wine, and the truth.

When it was time to leave, we hugged for a long time. It wasn’t a casual goodbye. It was the kind that says, I see you now. I could feel that we were both deeply moved, that something had shifted. The silence between us had finally broken, and in its place was something whole.

Driving home, I felt a deep kind of lightness. Not the kind that comes from escape, but from release. I thought about how much time we had lost, and how much we had gained in those few days. I felt grateful for her. For the honesty and for the timing of it all.

Silence ends more friendships than fights ever will, but sometimes, if you’re lucky, silence can be broken. And when it is, it can heal things you didn’t know were still hurting.

That weekend, we broke ours. And I left feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time: peace, connection, and gratitude. Gratitude for the years we survived alone, and even more for the fact that now, we don’t have to anymore.