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This is a story of loss. 

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But not in the way that you might be imagining it. 

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Not the form with funerals and gatherings to honor memories. Not where the person you miss, you cry for, takes their ultimate final steps into the light. 

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It is not the story of a breakup, told to friends in crowded bars or around copious snacks curled up on the couch. 

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It is not the kind that, although painful, has its comforting traditions. 

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This is the story of a quieter loss. 

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One that we rarely hear spoken about, so often conditioned to believe that it is shameful. That it is a mistake. That it is something to be forgotten, to be the beginning of a reunion on front porches, over a tearful phone call or through a powerful letter expressing the deepest solace. 

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This is the story of losing our closest people—a parent, a sibling, a cousin, not to the shadows of death but the active decisions made by those who choose to walk away. 

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It is the tale of families that no longer speak. Where the silence isn’t an accident with text messages missed because of busy schedules or gatherings skipped in favor of all-inclusives. 

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This is about the separations of those of whom you are taught—from as early as you can remember—harbor nothing but unconditional love and acceptance for you, who embrace you through mistakes, misgivings and moments of misinterpretation. 

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This is the recounting of the people who you long for, whose shadows mark your life while all those around you speak to the beauty of the love that has held them up, carried them through their harshest challenges and celebrated their biggest victories.

 

This is not the story of the why—because the why almost never matters. 

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Even when we want it to matter. When we want to scream, when we want to ask for clarification to a reflection that isn't there, to an empty seat where no answers sit. 

 

This is not a story at all.

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Because maybe this type of loss doesn’t have a beginning, middle, or end. It doesn’t have a satisfying conclusion.

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Instead, this is the aftermath: the feelings that leave us confused and cause us to question our identity, our part, our path. 

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I can’t write a final chapter of reunion, but I can offer hope. 

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I can give acceptance: we can find meaning in the grief we feel when our most treasured people leave a hole in our lives. 

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I can lend  compassion cultivated for our younger selves. 

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And I can share a reignited desire to give them the love they know they have always been worthy of. 

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I lost someone close to me. 

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Someone who I looked up to. Who I wanted so desperately to embrace me, who I knew held this power over me that could either give me unstoppable confidence or tear me into the smallest pieces. 

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While my mourning has had years to collect dust, to fade as I flourished into the person I am now in spite of that vacant role, it still stings as though it were an open wound. This is not because I have never felt grief. This is not because I haven’t processed the pain or the rejection. This isn’t even because I still crave that person’s validation. 

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For me, the hurt comes from this deeply held belief that our family is supposed to be there: the Hallmark movie messaging that those who brought you into the world will always have your back, that they feel an unrelenting pull to protect, that they worry about you the moment you leave the room and that their heart sings at the thought of your next visit. 

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While this movie magic may be the reality for many—and in that I am delightfully glad that those who are loved in that way have had that experience, have had a place to land, that there was never a fear that they wouldn’t have that person to go to—for others this expectation brings dissonance and lack. 

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This loss, that we often speak of as estrangement—a bizarre word that means “a loss of affection, a turning away from someone”—implies that the feeling is gone. 

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But we know that is not true. It lingers, it taunts, sometimes it is sharp and other times it dully pulses beneath the surface. It’s like having a room in your home with no door. It’s still there, living amongst the rest of your spaces, without the opportunity to see what’s inside. 

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When we hear the word estrangement, it often conjures images of drama, of pettiness, of unwillingness to communicate brought about by something inconsequential. Yet for those who connect with this feeling, who have been distanced from those in their inner circle, the reasons are infinite and many of them more complex, more misshapen than could be imagined.

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Everyone’s situation is unique and each person who has been touched by this type of grief knows that regardless of how it happened, the muddied waters of your emotional landscape have been compromised by a slew of uncomfortable and conflicting sets of sentiments that are rarely easy to explain. 

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You may feel relief if there was harm done; a sense of safety for yourself or those close to you at the vast, cultivated distance.

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You may feel anger at how the situation concluded, at the side that you landed on, whether the one who walked or the one left standing. 

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You may feel empowered that your choices are your own and that you no longer have to tip-toe around opinions or perspectives that do not align with your values.

 

You may feel fear for what the future might bring, a mourning for the memories that will not be added to your tapestry of lifelong recollections. 

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You may feel shame when you are asked about your family, your relationship with a person in it, or panic at how to explain what feels inconceivable to many. 

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And all of these feelings will be valid. 

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We are not taught how to rumble with the discomfort of emotions being true simultaneously. We are not always informed about how to process a barrage of questions that will never have answers. We can rarely keep our curiosity at bay when something immensely life-altering doesn’t end with closure. 

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We are not given the tools to know how to approach our inner child with empathy for the hurt that they are feeling. For the abandonment that they may be assuming. For the self-consciousness they may be internalizing. For the unworthiness they may be accepting. 

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But as we grow and become our adult selves, we get the opportunity to learn anew. 

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The chance to tell ourselves that this grief that feels unbearably personal, doesn’t have to belong to us. That while we can hold space for the experiences of others, we cannot allow them to reshape our value or our perception of how lovable we are. 

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That our grown-person selves can make a choice. One of remembering: even those who were meant to care for you may not have had all the tools they needed to do that job justice. And while you are not obligated to forgive them completely, you are freed by offering grace and compassion as a flawed human showing up as only they could at that time. 

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That you as your present-day self can choose differently. Choose to approach others with the kindness you didn’t receive. Choose people in your life who uplift you, who remind you that you are enough just as you are. You can choose to see the gifts that you hold within and the lessons that you have learned along the way without guidance but with intuition. 

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Know that even though phantoms may still float through the walls of that doorless room, they do not need to haunt you. You are so much stronger than you can ever imagine. You have the ability, the gifts, the capacity right now and every moment forward to choose yourself and to foster your own sense of belonging. 

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