Seven days ago, I went no contact with the last remaining link to my family: my father.
It was something I needed to do.
The moment I closed that door, I was overcome with sadness. Ironically, it happened on my mother’s birthday, a woman I have not spoken to in nearly ten years. My brother and I have been estranged for years as well, and my relationships with my other siblings faded during that time as well.
Then, only one week later from going no contact with my dad, Father’s Day arrived.
Today.
The tears I cried today were not only for my father. They were for everything this moment represents.
They were for the realization that my family is still alive, yet absent from my life.
They were for the understanding that I may never speak to them again.
They were for the finality of a door I never wanted to close, but could no longer leave open.
Many people assume that no contact is born out of hatred. My experience has been the opposite.
The pain comes because love still exists.
I loved my family.
I love them now.
That is what makes this grief so complicated.
As I sat with my emotions today, I found myself grieving in ways I did not expect. I found myself wishing I could somehow apologize, not for the choices that were beyond my control, but for the pain my existence may have caused them.
For much of my life, I carried burdens that were too large for a child to carry. I became the object of criticism, misunderstanding, and public scrutiny. Looking back, I can see how deeply those circumstances affected me. I can also see that my family was affected by them in ways I may never fully understand.
If I could undo the suffering that touched all of us, I would.
But I cannot.
The child I was did not possess the power, understanding, or resources to change what happened.
For most of my life, I focused on understanding my own wounds. Today, I found myself thinking about theirs. I thought about the pressures they carried, the scrutiny they faced, and the ways they may have struggled to make sense of circumstances that were larger than any of us.
I am not excusing the harm that was done, nor am I accepting responsibility for things that were never mine to carry. But for the first time, I found myself grieving for them too.
Perhaps that is part of what makes this goodbye so painful. I am not walking away from people I hate. I am walking away from people I love, people who were unable or unwilling to meet me where I needed them to meet me. Sometimes love is present and relationship is still impossible. That is one of the hardest truths I have ever had to accept.
Today, what broke my heart was realizing that I spent decades trying to earn a place where I truly belonged, while slowly discovering that I had been assigned a role I was never meant to keep.
As the oldest daughter, I was expected to be responsible, available, accommodating, and compliant. Yet from the very beginning there was something in me that questioned what did not make sense. Even when I was silent, I could not silence the truth inside of me.
I was a peculiar child. At times I struggled to speak, yet I also possessed an unshakable need to understand what was true. I questioned things. I challenged assumptions. I disrupted patterns simply by refusing to accept them without examination. Often, I was not trying to create conflict. I was simply responding to what I saw.
Over time, I realized that the qualities that made me different were also the qualities that made it difficult for me to remain in the role that had been assigned to me.
I was encouraged to succeed, but independence seemed to come with conditions. Expectations surrounded me that extended beyond my family. They were woven into generations, community, church culture, and unspoken rules that everyone seemed to understand except me.
Education became my path to freedom.
Learning taught me how to think for myself. It gave me language for experiences I could never fully explain. It opened doors that allowed me to imagine a life beyond the limitations I had always known.
In many ways, education became my way out.
So I took the exit.
Breaking away from my family role came at a great cost, but it was necessary for my peace and growth.
The separation did not happen all at once.
It unfolded over a lifetime.
It began with questions. It continued through years of searching, learning, healing, and trying to make sense of things that never quite fit. The more I healed, the more I changed. The more I changed, the more apparent it became that I could not force others to change with me.
Healing requires movement.
Freedom requires movement.
Eventually, movement required distance.
As I sit here on Day 7, I realize that going no contact was not the beginning of the separation.
It was the acknowledgment of it.
In many ways, I had been walking a different path all along. I simply reached the point where I could no longer deny it.
We are all created to live freely.
I was never truly free within the role I occupied in my family.
To gain that freedom, I had to let go.
The grief will not disappear. I do not expect it to.
What I do believe is that life will continue to expand.
The grief may change shape.
I will change shape.
What I will no longer do is carry responsibilities that were never mine to carry or spend my life managing circumstances that were never mine to fix.
I had to want freedom enough.
I had to want peace enough.
And finally, I had to become willing to accept the cost of both.
This concludes my seven-day reflection on grief and no contact.
The story of this week is ending, but the larger story is only beginning.
There will be more days, more lessons, more healing, and more growth.
This week was simply a glimpse into what grief has looked like during the first seven days.
Today, I can finally say that my voice is unchained.
Not without pain.
Not without grief.
Not without tears.
But unchained nonetheless.
After decades of being silenced, diminished, misunderstood, and shut down, my voice is finally free.
And there is much more to come.
More life.
More healing.
More freedom.
And most importantly, more of my voice.
My Voice Unchained 