My Story of Estrangement | When Choosing Yourself Means Walking Away From a Parent

Carrie
5 days ago
8 min read

No Contact: A trendy phrase indeed!

“But he’s still your father.”

Those words have been said to me in different ways throughout my life.

And my answer has become very simple:

I miss having a father. I don’t miss mine.

There is an enormous difference between those two things.

I can grieve the father I should have had. I can grieve having someone who protected me, showed up for me, wanted to know me, and made me feel safe.

But grieving that relationship does not mean I need to reopen the door to the person who was unable, or unwilling to give me those things.

I stopped seeing my father when I was 12 years old.

My parents had been involved in an incredibly long, difficult divorce and custody battle that ultimately lasted about eight years. I even had my own lawyer so that my voice and wishes could be heard within that process.

At 12, I made the decision that I no longer wanted to see my father.

And there was a reason. Actually, there were many.

Sometimes a Parent Simply Isn't a Safe Parent

As an adult, I can look back and see things a bit differentlythan I could as a child.

I don't necessarily believe my father woke up every morning wanting to be a father. I think, in his own way, he probably tried with the emotional tools he had.

He came from an older generation and an old-school farming mentality where emotions weren't necessarily discussed, affection wasn't always expressed, and parenting looked very different than it does today.

I can understand that.

But understanding someone's limitations doesn't erase their impact. And his limitations hurt me.

Growing up, I rarely felt that there was genuine interest in having me around.

Children notice that.

They notice when their presence feels inconvenient.

They notice when they aren't protected.

They notice when the adults around them aren't emotionally available.

And eventually, some children stop asking those adults to become something they have repeatedly shown themselves incapable of being.

Then Something Happened That Changed Everything

When I eventually disclosed that I had been sexually abused by a family member, another devastating piece of information came to light.

We learned that my father had previously witnessed this same person behaving sexually inappropriately toward my own sister, his stepdaughter.

He had seen something.

And he had said nothing.

That happened before the abuse happened to me.

That knowledge has been something I have had to process throughout my life.

Because there will always be that question: What if he had spoken up?

What if an adult had recognized the danger and done what adults are supposed to do?
What if someone had intervened?
Would that person have still had access to me?
Would my story have been different?

I'll never know.

But when I later pressed charges against my abuser, the police asked my father to testify about what he had witnessed involving my sister.

He refused.

And then he told them that he didn't believe that I had been abused.

That was another choice. And I felt that to my core.

It was the one time he could have stepped up to be an actual father. A decent human being.

And he failed.

Children Notice Who Protects Them

There were other serious circumstances surrounding my relationship with my father.

Before I stopped seeing him, there had been witnessed allegations that he threatened my mother's life through "someone who would take care of her" in an attempt to end their ongoing divorce battle. Something that was also documented by witnesses, and was brought to the courts.

He was charged in connection with the situation and was put on probation.

So yes, my experience with a toxic parent may be more extreme than many people's.

But the lesson I took from it applies far beyond my particular story:

Children learn who the safe adults are.
They learn who they can trust.
They learn who believes them.
They learn who protects them.
They learn who shows up when things become uncomfortable.

And sometimes, painfully, they learn that the person carrying the title of Mom or Dad isn't one of those people.

"But They're Your Parent"

There is still an enormous social expectation that children owe their parents lifelong access to them simply because they share DNA.

We hear:

But she's your mother.

But he's your father.

You'll regret it when they're gone.

Family is family.

Blood is thicker than water.

And sometimes these statements are directed toward people who spent years trying to make the relationship work.

People who set boundaries.

People who explained how they were hurting.

People who forgave repeatedly.

People who went back again and again hoping that this time something would change.

And eventually they realized:

I cannot continue hurting myself just to maintain the appearance of a family!

No Contact Isn't Always Punishment

There seems to be a growing narrative that adult children going no contact with their parents are entitled, overly sensitive, influenced by social media, or participating in some kind of cultural trend.

Certainly, relationships are complicated. People can misunderstand each other. Families can become estranged over situations that might have been repaired with communication, accountability, therapy, or boundaries.

But that isn't every story.

Sometimes no contact isn't revenge.

It isn't punishment.
It isn't about teaching someone a lesson.
It isn't even about anger.

Sometimes no contact is simply the moment someone finally understands:

This relationship is not safe for me.

And safety isn't only about physical violence.

Emotional safety matters.
Psychological safety matters.
Having your boundaries respected matters.
Being believed matters.
Being protected matters.
Not being manipulated, threatened, humiliated, controlled, or repeatedly destabilized matters.

There are situations where distance becomes an act of self-preservation.

Understanding Doesn't Require Access

One of the biggest lessons of my own healing has been learning that compassion and boundaries can exist together.

I can understand that my father had his own upbringing.

His own wounds. His own emotional limitations. His own beliefs about what being a man and a father meant.

I can acknowledge that perhaps he did the best he knew how.

But sometimes someone's best still causes tremendous harm.

Understanding why someone became who they are does not obligate us to continue experiencing the consequences of who they are.

I don't need to hate my father in order to have boundaries with him.
I don't need to spend my life consumed by anger.
I don't need revenge.
And I don't need a relationship with him in order to prove that I have healed.

Sometimes healing means accepting someone exactly as they are, and realizing that who they are cannot safely have access to you.

Blood Does Not Automatically Create Safety

We romanticize biological family. But sharing DNA doesn't automatically create trust.

It doesn't create accountability.
It doesn't create emotional maturity.
And it certainly doesn't guarantee safety.

Family, at its healthiest, should be built on more than biology.

It should include care.
Protection.
Respect.
Accountability.
Consistency.
Safety.
And trust.

Sometimes the people who give us those things aren't related to us at all.

And sometimes the people who share our blood are the very people we need distance from.

The Day I Drove Past My Father

A few years ago, something happened that showed me just how much healing and detachment had taken place.

I was driving home one day, following my GPS. It happened to take me on a route past my father's house. I wasn't looking for him. I hadn't planned to drive by. It was simply the quickest way home.

And coincidentally, it was Father's Day.

Father's Day is a holiday I honestly tend to forget about. I haven't had a father to celebrate for more than 30 years, so it isn't a day that holds much significance in my life.

As I drove past his house, there he was.

Standing on his front deck, tending to the BBQ. He had remarried many years before and had stepchildren in his life, but there he was, on Father's Day, cooking at the BBQ.

And something unexpected happened.

I felt sad!

But I didn't feel sad for me.

I felt sad for him.

For that man standing on the front porch who had no idea that his only biological child had just driven past his house on Father's Day.

For a man who, in another version of our story, might have been sitting with his daughter while someone else cooked him dinner.

Maybe there would have been cards, laughter, stories and a Father's Day celebration.

But that wasn't our story.

And what struck me most was that I didn't feel the need to stop.

I didn't feel the need to reconnect.

I wasn't overcome with grief about what I was missing.

I simply felt compassion for another human being whose choices had helped bring him to this place in his life.

There was a sadness in seeing that.

But it was his sadness. It wasn't mine to carry.

That moment taught me something about healing. Healing doesn't always mean reconciliation. It doesn't always end with two people sitting across from one another, apologizing, forgiving and rebuilding a relationship.

Sometimes healing looks like driving past.

Sometimes healing is being able to see the person who hurt you and no longer feel that familiar pull inside of yourself.

Sometimes healing means recognizing their humanity while still remembering what happened.

I can feel compassion for my father without giving him access to my life.

I can understand that he is a human being who made choices, had limitations, carried his own wounds and will eventually have to live with whatever those choices created.

And I don't have to hate him.

I don't have to punish him.

I don't have to rescue him from the consequences of those choices either.

I can simply keep driving.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest freedoms that healing has given me:

I can feel sadness for the man on the porch without becoming the little girl who needed her father again.

I Miss Having a Father. I Don't Miss Mine.

People have asked me over the years whether I miss my father.

And this is still the truest answer I know:

I miss having a father. I don't miss mine.

I miss the idea of having a dad.

Someone I could call.
Someone who would worry about me.
Someone who would protect me.
Someone who would be proud of me.
Someone who would have stood beside me when I needed an adult to say:

“I believe you. And I will protect you.”

That is what I grieve.

Not necessarily the relationship I actually had, but the relationship I deserved to have.

And I think many estranged adult children understand that grief.

You can love someone and know you cannot have them in your life.

You can understand someone's wounds and refuse to continue being wounded by them.

You can forgive someone and still keep the door closed.

You can wish someone peace from a distance.

And you can grieve the parent you needed while accepting the reality of the parent you were given.

Going no contact with a parent isn't automatically selfish, entitled, cruel, or trendy.

For some people, it is the culmination of years of trying.
For some, it is finally trusting what their nervous system has been telling them for years.
For some, it is recognizing who is safe and who isn't.

And for some of us, it began much earlier.

I was 12 years old when I decided I didn't want to see my father anymore.

I didn't have today's language for boundaries, trauma, nervous system regulation, or toxic family dynamics.

I just knew something very important:

I didn't feel safe.

And sometimes the child inside of us understands that long before the adult world is willing to listen.

Journal Prompts

When I think about my relationship with my parent or family member, do I miss them, or do I miss the relationship I wish we could have had?
What does emotional safety look and feel like to me?
Have I been maintaining a relationship because I genuinely want it, or because I feel guilt, obligation, fear, or social pressure?
What happens in my body before, during, and after interactions with this person?
Am I waiting for someone to become the person I needed them to be rather than accepting who they have consistently shown themselves to be?
What boundaries would I choose if I believed that protecting my peace did not require anyone else's permission?