Letter to My Soul – About Identity and Roots

by Anișoara Laura Mustețiu

A heartfelt letter to the soul, exploring roots, identity, and the quiet power of personal transformation.

There is within each of us a quiet calling toward beginnings. Sometimes we ignore it; other times, we feel it as a stirring in the chest, a longing without a name. The Letter to My Soul – About Roots is a moment of return—toward the invisible roots of our being, toward the memories that nourish our identity and our yearning for rediscovery.

This letter speaks of a silent treasure that accompanies us. It is a reverence for those who loved before us, for the places that nurtured our soul, and for that part of us that—even in the midst of change—has not forgotten who it is.

Read with an open heart. And perhaps, between the lines, you’ll encounter your own roots.

A New Letter to My Soul — About Roots

What is unseen keeps us alive

 

There is a quiet power hidden beneath the surface of our lives — the invisible roots anchored deep in the soil of memory and emotion. They wind through our being like strands of light in shadow, present in every heartbeat of existence. These are my roots — our roots — born alongside me, woven from the past, flowing through the blood of those who loved before me.

Even now, my roots return the scent of freshly cut hay in early August and the ghostly traces of hands once gentle on my cheeks. When I go home, it is not to a place — but to a moment in time, a pause where earth once spoke and longing wasn’t pain but pathway. My thoughts drift across the hills of childhood, tracing the trails left by the footsteps of my parents and grandparents. In my mind I wander my grandparents’ courtyard and still smell warm bread and burnt candlewax. I hear whispers of wisdom floating through the summer dusk — “God and soul” spoken with reverent tenderness. There, for the first time, I became aware of my soul. There, I felt my origin.

Today, I read softly of our shared roots, returning to the words I wrote years ago, not to mourn the past but to celebrate it.

I recall stepping carefully on the creaking wooden porch, built by my grandfather from two simple logs, one of which always shifted beneath my feet. Inside the small, lantern-lit room, the air held the warmth of polenta with chicken stew and wild mushrooms gathered by my grandfather in the forest. My grandmother stood beside the stove, stirring the food with a wooden spoon, her voice casting sacred warmth over everything. Her gaze wrapped me in veiled smiles steeped in love.

I would sit beside my dear grandfather. He waited for me every day, no matter the distance. From him I learned the meaning of “home” — a word that throbbed within me, filling me with joyous ache. On one enchanted summer evening, he sat at the edge of the bed, and I placed behind him a linen pillow woven by my grandmother. Beneath the pillow was a book — pages yellowed by time — holding silent prayers. I laid the book upon the windowsill beside the lantern. His sky-colored eyes sparkled with happiness. That was his gaze when he looked at me — serene, touched only sometimes by mist when I departed. From them — from both my grandfather and my grandmother — I learned the essence of love, reflected in their glances overflowing with kindness and warmth.

Dear soul, do not sigh for those who are no longer here. Let us celebrate that they lived, that they are the roots from which we were born. They continue to nourish us with kindness, warmth, and love. I am well. I have you. I have all the beautiful memories you guard so tenderly within. I know you protect them, keeping them safe from the wind of forgetfulness. They remain — wrapped in a quiet, natural promise — as if the universe itself granted approval that all things precious should endure. They live on, ready to be revisited whenever I wish.

Though our loved ones have passed into silence, reverent memories still carry their faces and their love. The pain of their loss deepens my understanding of life, its meaning, and the irreplaceable value of each moment spent with those we cherish. This is why I write to you today, beloved soul — to say how deeply I treasure you.

My roots arise not only from my past but from you — that divine drop from which you were formed. It is as if my journey began there, with you. You have always been whole. I, on the other hand, grow and unfold with each day, each attempt to understand myself more deeply. Soul of mine, you are a gentle, timeless presence dwelling in the heart of simple things. Sometimes, in the quiet of night when the noise of day fades, I close my eyes and I see you — silent and overwhelming, luminous and kind. The peace you radiate carries me to a realm where no boundary exists between soul and dream. There, we wander together, and some of those painted dreams become reality.

You are the tranquil beginning from which my words emerge, and perhaps even the end — where meaning finds form. Today, I write from love and gratitude, for my roots carry your imprint, and my growth unfolds through your presence. Remain always the light that draws me toward all that is best and truest within.

There are moments when I feel my blood surge through my veins like a secret calling. My body stretches tall, and my gaze turns skyward, searching for a new meaning that rises from the depths. In those moments, a wave of pride flows through me like a celebration. And with every passing time, I understand more and more that my blood pulses with their genes — parents, grandparents, ancestors. A whole world lives on through me.

It was you who first showed me that I was never truly alone. That I am a bridge between what was and what will be. I am the song of the women who kneaded tears of joy and longing into warm bread. I am my grandfather’s stories, built on courage and faith in God. I am roots that grow toward light. And in every gesture I choose, in every word I allow to flow, in every silence I embrace — they live. My pride is not vanity. It is gratitude. It is my answer to their call: “Be, and carry us forward.”

So, dear soul, we must never feel alone. Remember this: I am the tree grown from roots — and you are the sap rising toward the stars.

I write these words as I refresh my senses in spring’s fragrance, in its colours and clarity. Within us live all the unforgotten things — the feelings that wove longing into long winters, the eyes that searched for you in heavy moments, when those around me held only silence. So many dreams still live in my heart, not yet shaped into words, but fed by hope.

You once whispered… “My child, do not fear your tears. They make you gentler. Don’t run from stillness, for that is where you will always find me.” Over time, I’ve learned to understand your wisdom. In my veins linger our family’s stories. They murmur gently, like a spring. And my heartbeat tells me… “When you love, love with everything you are. And when you’re lost… remember the nest where you were dreamed before you were born.” Dear soul, you too are part of that miracle that makes me bloom.

My roots do not bind me. On the contrary, they propel me forward. They are the treasure I carry wherever I go — even in foreign lands where I learned to weep, to fight, to grow. From those roots, my voice is nourished, my story shaped, my longing to rediscover reborn.

It was you who lit my thoughts and opened my understanding: roots are not just ties to the past. Sometimes, they become wings rising from the earth — from the fertile matter where what is rooted begins to ascend.

You reminded me that in every word spoken by our parents hides an entire history: a hidden line of blood and soul, an ancestral vibration that carries songs, longings, and untold tales. The places of my ancestors, with their old silence, are spiritual springs that still flow through me. When I leave, they call me back — not with fear of being lost, but with longing and song.

Even when I write in another language, I feel within me a mysterious bond between two worlds — worlds that recognize and embrace each other. But nothing is ever as sweet and profound as the language of my parents and grandparents. And I remain what I have always been.

“Pahon.”
The word slips gently across the walls of my soul, imprisoned in secret joys and countless sorrows. At the sound of this blessed name, the heavy wooden gate guarding my inner world swings open, and I almost see my soul smiling from its depths.
I am “Anca, daughter of Pahon.” That’s how I’ve remained, and how I’ll forever be — an identity that holds truths untouched by time. Proud, simple, pure. Like the willow that took root in the villagers’ tales, I too have remained, always, my grandfather’s girl — Pahon’s girl.

Dearest soul, you know those roots better than I do. You protected them when I felt lost, when I tore away from myself trying to become someone else, trying to belong elsewhere. You whispered to me that no storm can uproot what’s true — it only regenerates dreams. Now I understand just how much you’ve given me.

Through this letter, I wish to thank you again. For always reminding me who I am. For filling me with healing warmth when the world seemed to forget me. You are the scent and color of harmony within me.
I blossom from you.

With eternal love,
Laura