When you imagine the future you’ve been holding space for — does it still feel like yours to hold?
Excellent question. I feel like the future I am holding space for is not possible. I am trying to let go of that future and hold space for the present. I used to think I have some control of my future, but now I understand that I must live now and let the future take me where it goes. Having a picture of what I want with my estranged son sacrifices my enjoyment of the present. I won't give that away.
Karemm... what you just wrote is something it takes most people years to find their way to.
"I won't give that away."
That line. I want to sit with it for a moment because it's exactly right. The present is the only thing that's actually yours. The future you were holding, the one with your son in it, in the way you imagined, that was a picture. And pictures, however beautiful, are not life.
What you're describing isn't giving up. It's showing up. For yourself. For now.
Thank you for leaving this here. Someone reading today needed to see that it's possible to arrive at this place. You just showed them it is.
That 'reader' was me ♡ Thank you for sitting with my despair, and that of my husband's.
Thank you for putting it out there ♡
The very last sentence our estranged daughter said to us in a cold, formal email three years ago, was "I am no longer available for communication for the foreseeable future". She remains as true & elusive to her word. I fear (her) foreseeable future is one completely devoid of any reconciliation 😞
And yet, the actress in her knows that "life is not a dress rehearsal"...
Perhaps the reason this hit me so hard Sandra, is it's because they were the exact same words my daughter said to me, "I don't see this changing in the foreseeable future". That was several years ago, as we have been reconciled for awhile now, and in a loving relationship again. Please allow me the time to respond more deeply in part two. I'm glad you are here.
Because of the sudden, shocking, cruel words and deeds of our estranged daughter — as well as subsequently going through all the stages of grief and radical acceptance — I don’t have any desire for reconciliation and would not be willing to accept it if offered.
Barry, thank you for being here and for saying this so plainly.
What you've been through sounds like it left marks that don't just heal with time. And sometimes radical acceptance isn't just a stage, it's the only livable position.
I won't challenge where you've landed. But I will say... the fact that you're here, reading, tells me something. People who are truly done don't usually keep looking.
I live with her ghost, the ghost of who she used to be, the ghost of who she could have been.
I have nothing, no bones to bury, no body to cry over. No ritual, no funeral, no gathering. Only shame and silence and trying not to cry every time I see a mother and child in public.
It feels the same as when my husband died.
She's dead to me, and to her two siblings, by her own choice. And I do not see that changing.
The daughter I once loved and raised is dead and she's not coming back.
If my daughter contacted me today and wanted to reconcile, I would be tempted to say "I'm sorry stranger, I am not your mother. I once had a daughter with your name and face, who you killed, and you once had a mother, who you killed. Your mother died, together with my daughter. They died together".
I had to sit with this for a moment before responding.
What you've described is one of the most honest accounts of ambiguous grief I've ever read. No bones to bury. No ritual. No permission to mourn publicly. Just the ghost of her, everywhere, every time you see a mother and daughter in a coffee shop or a parking lot.
That is a real death. And it deserves to be grieved as one.
The words you'd want to say to a stranger with her face... I understand them. They came from somewhere true.
I'm not going to offer you hope today. I'm just going to say, you are not alone in this. And the silence and shame you carry? You don't have to carry those here. I hope, in time, you can set that weight down too.
I'm glad you said it out loud. I'm glad you're here.
I have come to realized that a future with my son is probably not going to happen. The last thing he said to me was that his aunt loved him more than I ever did.🥲He has a changed his number and address. He has told my other children that he will not be attending our funerals. Life goes on, I will always love him and continue to to pray for him.
Lydia... thank you for trusting this space with something so painful.
Those words, that his aunt loved him more than you ever did, I imagine they land again every time you hear them in your memory. Words like that don't just hurt once.
And yet here you are. Still loving him. Still praying for him. Not because it's easy or because it's been returned. Just because that's who you are.
That's not nothing. That's everything, actually.
I don't know what happened between you and your son, and I don't need to. What I see is a mother who has been through something most people couldn't imagine, and who is still choosing love anyway. Quietly. Without an audience. Without a guarantee.
I cannot think about the future. I can only deal with the present, and some days not very well. Or at least I choose to keep focused on now because otherwise it'll slip through my fingers and become past very quickly.
I don't want to miss more life.
It's taken me far too long to rub some dirt on it, but eventually I figured out what's kept me afloat is focusing on the present as best I can. I know things always change- that's a given, but I try not to imagine what anything will look like going forward. It's not up to me anyway. For me it's the only thing keeping me from drowning.
That line is exactly it. Because it's exactly right, and it's also, I think, the beginning of something bigger than just getting through the day.
Staying present is real wisdom. And I wonder... what if the present isn't just where we survive, but where we're actually being shaped into someone capable of what comes next? Not imagining the future, but becoming, quietly, the person who's ready for it.
You're not drowning. You're being made stronger than you know.
When you imagine the future you’ve been holding space for — does it still feel like yours to hold?
Excellent question. I feel like the future I am holding space for is not possible. I am trying to let go of that future and hold space for the present. I used to think I have some control of my future, but now I understand that I must live now and let the future take me where it goes. Having a picture of what I want with my estranged son sacrifices my enjoyment of the present. I won't give that away.
Karemm... what you just wrote is something it takes most people years to find their way to.
"I won't give that away."
That line. I want to sit with it for a moment because it's exactly right. The present is the only thing that's actually yours. The future you were holding, the one with your son in it, in the way you imagined, that was a picture. And pictures, however beautiful, are not life.
What you're describing isn't giving up. It's showing up. For yourself. For now.
Thank you for leaving this here. Someone reading today needed to see that it's possible to arrive at this place. You just showed them it is.
That 'reader' was me ♡ Thank you for sitting with my despair, and that of my husband's.
Thank you for putting it out there ♡
The very last sentence our estranged daughter said to us in a cold, formal email three years ago, was "I am no longer available for communication for the foreseeable future". She remains as true & elusive to her word. I fear (her) foreseeable future is one completely devoid of any reconciliation 😞
And yet, the actress in her knows that "life is not a dress rehearsal"...
Perhaps the reason this hit me so hard Sandra, is it's because they were the exact same words my daughter said to me, "I don't see this changing in the foreseeable future". That was several years ago, as we have been reconciled for awhile now, and in a loving relationship again. Please allow me the time to respond more deeply in part two. I'm glad you are here.
Because of the sudden, shocking, cruel words and deeds of our estranged daughter — as well as subsequently going through all the stages of grief and radical acceptance — I don’t have any desire for reconciliation and would not be willing to accept it if offered.
Barry, thank you for being here and for saying this so plainly.
What you've been through sounds like it left marks that don't just heal with time. And sometimes radical acceptance isn't just a stage, it's the only livable position.
I won't challenge where you've landed. But I will say... the fact that you're here, reading, tells me something. People who are truly done don't usually keep looking.
I'm glad you found this space.
Honestly?
I have accepted that that future will never come.
I lost my daughter.
She died. In every way, to me.
I live with her ghost, the ghost of who she used to be, the ghost of who she could have been.
I have nothing, no bones to bury, no body to cry over. No ritual, no funeral, no gathering. Only shame and silence and trying not to cry every time I see a mother and child in public.
It feels the same as when my husband died.
She's dead to me, and to her two siblings, by her own choice. And I do not see that changing.
The daughter I once loved and raised is dead and she's not coming back.
If my daughter contacted me today and wanted to reconcile, I would be tempted to say "I'm sorry stranger, I am not your mother. I once had a daughter with your name and face, who you killed, and you once had a mother, who you killed. Your mother died, together with my daughter. They died together".
Gianna.
I had to sit with this for a moment before responding.
What you've described is one of the most honest accounts of ambiguous grief I've ever read. No bones to bury. No ritual. No permission to mourn publicly. Just the ghost of her, everywhere, every time you see a mother and daughter in a coffee shop or a parking lot.
That is a real death. And it deserves to be grieved as one.
The words you'd want to say to a stranger with her face... I understand them. They came from somewhere true.
I'm not going to offer you hope today. I'm just going to say, you are not alone in this. And the silence and shame you carry? You don't have to carry those here. I hope, in time, you can set that weight down too.
I'm glad you said it out loud. I'm glad you're here.
I have come to realized that a future with my son is probably not going to happen. The last thing he said to me was that his aunt loved him more than I ever did.🥲He has a changed his number and address. He has told my other children that he will not be attending our funerals. Life goes on, I will always love him and continue to to pray for him.
Lydia... thank you for trusting this space with something so painful.
Those words, that his aunt loved him more than you ever did, I imagine they land again every time you hear them in your memory. Words like that don't just hurt once.
And yet here you are. Still loving him. Still praying for him. Not because it's easy or because it's been returned. Just because that's who you are.
That's not nothing. That's everything, actually.
I don't know what happened between you and your son, and I don't need to. What I see is a mother who has been through something most people couldn't imagine, and who is still choosing love anyway. Quietly. Without an audience. Without a guarantee.
I'm glad you're here.
I cannot think about the future. I can only deal with the present, and some days not very well. Or at least I choose to keep focused on now because otherwise it'll slip through my fingers and become past very quickly.
I don't want to miss more life.
It's taken me far too long to rub some dirt on it, but eventually I figured out what's kept me afloat is focusing on the present as best I can. I know things always change- that's a given, but I try not to imagine what anything will look like going forward. It's not up to me anyway. For me it's the only thing keeping me from drowning.
"I don't want to miss more life."
That line is exactly it. Because it's exactly right, and it's also, I think, the beginning of something bigger than just getting through the day.
Staying present is real wisdom. And I wonder... what if the present isn't just where we survive, but where we're actually being shaped into someone capable of what comes next? Not imagining the future, but becoming, quietly, the person who's ready for it.
You're not drowning. You're being made stronger than you know.
I'm glad you're here.