Estrangement and the Heart’s Tug-of-War: How to Feel Without Falling Apart

Two People Pull a rope in the opposite direction. A Tug-O-War

Being estranged from my adult child has created a pain unlike anything I’ve ever known. It feels like a tug-of-war between everything I feel in my heart and everything I can’t control. On one side, there’s my love, my longing, my instinct to reach out and fix what’s broken. On the other side, there’s their silence, their boundaries, their absence. And right in the middle? My heart—pulled, stretched, aching.

There are days when I don’t know what to do with all the emotion inside me. One minute, I’m full of grief. The next, I’m angry—or completely numb. It’s exhausting. And yet, I’ve learned something that’s helping me survive: I can feel it all and still not fall apart.

🇮🇹 A Revelation While I Was in Italy

While I was in Italy, I took a pause. A real one. I stepped away from the pain, the confusion, and the roles that so often consume me—and I chose to do something just for me. And what I found was this: the self-care I needed wasn’t spa days or bubble baths—it was remembering who I was before the ache.

I went back to my roots. I sang. I was surrounded by other performers. I listened, I learned, I laughed. And in all of that, I rediscovered the woman God created me to be.

Motherhood changed me. In some beautiful, sacred ways, it made me better. It taught me to love beyond myself. It taught me to give freely. It taught me to put another human before my own needs.

But it also brought anxiety, fear, and a deep loss of self. I became so wrapped up in being who I thought my children needed that I forgot who I was. The more I gave, the less I had. Until one day, everything stopped. Abruptly. Painfully.

And while I was in Italy, I realized something important: God never asked me to disappear into someone else’s story. He gave me a calling. A voice. A heart that beats not only for my children but also for His purpose for me.

💔 I’m Learning to Pause Without Guilt

All of this reflection—through travel, through books, and through honest self-examination—has brought me to a new place. A place where I can recognize my own need for healing without guilt. Where I can step back, not to escape the pain, but to hold space for myself.

Giving myself permission to pause is no longer something I shame myself for. It’s something I honor. I’m learning to welcome the waves of grief, anger, hope, and confusion—and let them pass through me, rather than define me.

Grief, anger, hope, confusion—these feelings come in waves. But I’m no longer drowning in them. I’m letting them pass through me.

📚 A Book That Changed My Perspective (and Why I’m Trying to See Through Their Eyes)

Right now, I’m reading a book that was recommended to me by a dear, dear singer friend. It’s called Shadow Daughter, and it’s written from the perspective of someone who was estranged from her mother. As I turn the pages, I find myself both challenged and comforted by the author’s voice. Her story is not mine—but it has helped me see more clearly the view from the other side.

She shares honestly about the toxicity in her relationship with her mother, and how stepping away was an act of self-preservation. And as hard as it is to admit, I understand that. I’ve had my own experiences with estrangement in my extended family—times when walking away felt like the only healthy choice. So I get it. I really do.

This book has helped me face an uncomfortable truth: we all carry some form of toxicity. Some more than others. And each of us has a different threshold for what we can carry or allow.

What I’m learning is that estrangement isn’t always about punishment. I don’t see it as survival—I see it as a necessary and healthy way to deal with my own issues and emotions. When conversations go nowhere… when boundaries are ignored… when pleas to be heard are met with silence or scorn—then yes, walking away can be the right decision. It doesn’t mean there’s no love. It means there’s no longer space for pain to be poured out over and over without repair.

Reading Shadow Daughter has given me a strange kind of peace. It reminds me to hold both truths:✨ That I can be heartbroken by the distance.✨ And also believe that my child might need it to feel safe.

It’s helping me grow. It’s helping me ask myself hard questions. And it’s showing me that healing—on both sides—may start with deep, uncomfortable honesty.

One of the hardest things I’ve done is try to consider my child’s perspective. I may not agree with it. I may not understand it fully. But I acknowledge that they have a story, too—one I may never fully know.

That doesn’t make me a bad parent. It makes me a growing one. It makes me someone who’s choosing love and empathy, even when the silence hurts.

Sometimes, I whisper to myself, “I can see how they might feel that way.” Just saying those words helps loosen the tightness in my chest.

🙊 I’m Not Failing—I'm Feeling

If I cry one day and laugh the next, I no longer see it as instability. I see it as a natural and necessary part of working through my emotions. I’m learning to honor my emotions without letting them define me. I am not falling apart. I am processing. I am healing.

And I’m not a failure. I’m just a mother walking through something unimaginably hard, choosing to do the next right thing—one breath at a time.

🌱 I’m Keeping the Door Open, But Guarding My Peace

I haven’t locked the door. Hope still lives in my heart. But I’m no longer pacing by the window. I can love my child deeply, while still building a life that doesn’t depend on their return.

That’s not giving up. That’s growth. That’s peace.

💡 Final Thoughts

Estrangement is a brutal kind of heartbreak. But it’s not the end of me.

While I was in Italy, I realized that I can still sing. I can still create. I can still live. Even with the ache, I can honor who I am and who I was created to be.

Maybe this tug-of-war isn’t something I’ll ever fully escape. But maybe—just maybe—it’s teaching me how to hold my own heart with tenderness, even when it’s being pulled in two.

💬 Let’s talk about it below.

Have you had a moment where you remembered who you were before the heartache? What has helped you reconnect to your purpose? I’d love to hear your story—because your voice matters here.

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