I chose no contact.
Apparently, my bloodline interpreted that as the start of a scavenger hunt.
When the front door closes, they try the side door. When the side door closes, they look for a window. When the windows are locked, they go digging through old professional profiles you forgot existed years ago.
It’s like being haunted by people who refuse to accept that they no longer have access to you.
No contact isn’t an invitation to become a detective. It isn’t a challenge. It isn’t a family-wide search party or a game of, “Let’s see who can find her next.” It’s a boundary.
The irony is almost laughable.
Some of the very people suddenly trying to locate me haven’t spoken to me in years. Decades, in some cases. There were no birthday wishes, no “How are you doing?” no conversations, nothing. Then, all of a sudden, I’m the missing puzzle piece everyone feels compelled to retrieve.
Where was all this determination before?
You can’t ignore someone’s existence for years and then suddenly become an expert in finding them because someone else wants access. That’s not concern. That’s recruitment.
What fascinates me most is how often people treat no contact like it’s temporary. As if I’ll eventually get tired. As if one more message will be the magic message. As if one more relative will say the perfect thing. As if one more unexpected visit will unlock a door I’ve intentionally closed.
No contact isn’t a negotiation. It isn’t waiting for better marketing. It isn’t a vote where the family gets to outnumber the person who made the decision.
It simply means no.
The more people search for hidden entrances into my life, the more they prove why I locked the front door in the first place.
Boundaries aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to be respected.
So if you’re wondering where I am, I’m exactly where I intended to be.
On the other side of a boundary I built for a reason.
My Voice Unchained 