For a long time, I think I was living at the door of my own life.
One of the strangest parts of healing after family estrangement has been realizing just how much time I spent there, waiting and hoping relationships would change.
Maybe that sounds strange, but it is the best way I can explain where I have been. It was like I had this house that represented my life. I showed people how to get there. I gave directions. I tried to make the path clear. I hoped they would come. Sometimes I practically begged them to come.
Then I waited.
And waited.
I kept thinking maybe they were just taking their time. Maybe they were confused about the directions. Maybe if I explained the route better, they would understand how to get here. Maybe if I made the path easier, they would finally show up.
But eventually I had to accept something I really didn’t want to accept.
Some people knew where I was. They just didn’t like the route my life took to get here.
And I can’t spend the rest of my life camped out at the door hoping they eventually decide to come.
I have an entire house to live in. I have a husband inside that house building a life with me. I have a relationship with God that is changing me. I have friendships, church, laughter, plans, healing, responsibilities and a future. There is an entire life happening away from that doorway.
At some point, I had to stop waiting at the door and go live in my house.
I Thought This Would Feel Simpler
I think I expected letting go to produce one clear emotion.
Peace, maybe.
Instead, I feel a little bit of everything.
I am grieving on some level. I am also at peace. I’m happy. I’m frustrated. Sometimes I’m angry. Sometimes I feel almost indifferent, and that one has probably confused me the most. There are moments when I feel disappointed and other moments when I feel relieved.
None of those emotions seem like they should belong together, but apparently they do.
I’m starting to become okay with not making perfect sense of them.
I think some of the grief comes from accepting that something I hoped for may not look the way I wanted it to. Some of the frustration comes from knowing I can’t fix that by myself. Some of the relief probably comes from finally putting down a responsibility I carried for too long. And maybe some of the peace is simply acceptance beginning to settle in.
Maybe peace doesn’t mean sadness disappears. Maybe healing doesn’t mean I never get angry again. Maybe relief doesn’t mean I stopped loving someone. Maybe being disappointed doesn’t mean I need to go back to the door and start waiting again.
Two things can be true at the same time. I can love people and be disappointed by their choices. I can miss what I wanted a relationship to be and accept what it actually is. I can grieve and still be happy with my life.
That is complicated, but complicated doesn’t necessarily mean unhealthy.
Maybe I’m not supposed to make all of these feelings line up perfectly. Maybe part of healing is learning that I can feel them without letting every feeling tell me what I need to do next.
The Feeling of Not Being Chosen Is Heavy
This is probably one of the areas where I have to be the most careful.
When people don’t choose to be part of your life, it is really easy to absorb their decision and turn it into something about your worth.
Why wasn’t I worth showing up for?
Why wasn’t I worth working things out with?
Why wasn’t I worth choosing?
Those questions can get heavy really fast.
And if I’m not careful, I can take somebody else’s behavior and use it as evidence against myself. The feeling of abandonment can become something much bigger if I let it start defining what I believe about myself.
I’m learning not to do that.
Someone else’s decision about whether they want a relationship with me does not get to determine how I see myself. Their behavior belongs to them. What I do with my life, my heart and my healing belongs to me.
I actually like the person God is shaping me into.
I’m certainly not finished. There are still things God is exposing in me, things I need to surrender and places where I need to grow. But I can look at myself now and see changes that I am proud of. I see a woman learning to speak, learning to set boundaries, learning to forgive, learning not to chase and learning that loving people does not require abandoning herself.
Maybe not everyone is going to choose that version of me.
And maybe not everyone is going to be invited close enough to see all of her either.
I’m becoming okay with that too.
Maybe What I’m Calling Indifference Is Acceptance
The indifference is probably the strangest part for me because I know I still care.
I still love people. I still want good things for them. I want them healthy. I want them happy. I want them growing. I can pray for those things and genuinely mean them.
So maybe indifference isn’t even the right word.
Maybe some of what I’m feeling is acceptance.
I don’t feel the same urgency anymore. I don’t feel like I have to figure everything out. I don’t feel the same responsibility to repair everything. I don’t feel like I have to keep checking the road to see whether somebody is finally coming.
For a long time, caring and chasing became tangled together in my mind. If I cared, I tried harder. If somebody pulled away, I reached farther. If there was silence, I wanted to fill it. If something felt unresolved, I wanted to resolve it.
Now I’m learning that I can care without chasing. I can love people and accept that I cannot control the relationship they choose to have with me. I can hope something changes someday without needing that change in order to live peacefully today.
Maybe acceptance feels strange because I spent so long believing I needed to do something.
Now there are situations where there really isn’t anything left for me to do.
That quiet can feel a lot like indifference when you’re not used to it.
Healing After Family Estrangement Isn’t a Performance
I think this may be one of the biggest things I am learning.
Healing isn’t a feeling.
If healing were a feeling, I would have to decide which feeling proves I’m doing it correctly. Is it peace? Happiness? Forgiveness? Calm?
What happens on the day I’m angry again?
Did I suddenly stop healing?
I don’t think so.
Healing after family estrangement is a process. Sometimes it is repetition. Sometimes it is practicing the same healthy response again and again until it becomes more natural. Sometimes it is catching an old thought before I let it take over. Sometimes it is forgiving something I thought I had already forgiven.
And sometimes healing is walking away from something.
Sometimes it is closing a door.
Sometimes it is leaving a door available but refusing to spend your life standing beside it.
The emotions that come with those decisions may change from day to day. I don’t have to judge every one of them, and I don’t have to heal according to somebody else’s expectations.
That part matters to me.
My healing is not a hoop I have to jump through to prove something to anyone. I don’t have to feel a certain way to prove I’m healing. I don’t have to make the choices somebody else wants me to make to prove I’ve forgiven. I don’t have to remove boundaries to prove I love someone. And I don’t have to give someone access to me to prove there isn’t bitterness in my heart.
I can feel angry without becoming cruel. I can feel sadness without allowing it to consume me. I can feel relief without feeling guilty for it. I can miss someone without chasing them. I can love someone without having a relationship with them.
Nobody else gets to grade my healing from the outside.
My job is to be honest with myself and with God about what is happening inside of me and continue doing the work He is asking me to do.
I Can Extend the Invitation, but I Can’t Make Someone Accept It
This has probably been one of the hardest truths for me to accept.
Relationships require more than one person.
I can extend an invitation. I can reach out in ways that still allow me to feel safe. I can leave room for a conversation. I can apologize when I need to apologize. I can forgive. I can pray. I can work on myself.
But I cannot make somebody accept the invitation.
I cannot build both sides of a relationship.
Romans 12:18 says, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
I’m starting to notice the importance of those words: as far as it depends on you.
There is a limit to what depends on me.
It is up to me to heal. It is up to me to grow. It is up to me to figure out what boundaries I need and then actually keep them. It is up to me to put safeguards around areas of my life that need protecting. It is up to me to work toward forgiveness and ask God to keep changing my heart.
It is not up to me to make everybody comfortable with those things.
Not everyone is going to understand my choices. Not everyone will agree with my boundaries. Some people may be uncomfortable with the truth of my experiences or my testimony. Some may not like the ways I choose to protect myself or how carefully I decide who gets access to different parts of my life.
Their comfort cannot be the measurement I use to determine whether I’m growing.
I have to steward what God has actually given me responsibility for: my heart, my mind, my body, my healing, my growth, my time, my energy, my marriage and the life in front of me.
I can invite someone into that life.
I cannot make them come.
So I’m Going to Live in My House
I don’t think I slammed the door.
I don’t even know that every door needs to be permanently closed.
I just stopped living there.
That’s the difference.
I’m not going to keep sitting at the entrance to my life watching the road and wondering who is coming. I’m not going to keep interpreting an empty driveway as evidence that there must be something wrong with me.
There is too much life happening inside.
There is a marriage I want to pour into. There are people who are present. There is a God I want to know better. There are things I want to learn, places I want to grow and parts of myself I am still discovering.
And yes, sometimes I may walk past that metaphorical door and feel sad. Sometimes I may be angry. Sometimes I may wonder why things had to be this way. Other days, I may walk right past it without thinking about it at all.
I’m learning that all of those things can be okay.
Healing after family estrangement doesn’t mean I stopped caring. It doesn’t mean I stopped loving people. It doesn’t mean I don’t wish things had turned out differently.
It means their absence doesn’t have to become my identity or something I hold onto.
Maybe that’s part of what acceptance actually looks like.
They are allowed to choose whether they come.
And I’m allowed to stop waiting.
I have a whole house to live in.