Reshaped by Fire: Estrangement and the New Terrain After Mount St. Helens

Before, After, and Today...Mount St. Helen, the terrain change after the explosion, and the beauty that has come afterwards

When Mount St. Helens erupted in 1980, the world changed in a single, violent moment. What had been a pristine peak was reduced to a crater surrounded by ash. But the true eruption had begun long before anyone saw the smoke—quietly, invisibly, deep beneath the surface where tectonic plates had been shifting.

Estrangement, for me, came the same way.

It wasn’t a slow drift or a clear series of signs. It was one ordinary conversation. One silent day. A moment when I couldn’t speak anymore—not out of anger, but because I had nothing left. My heart was exhausted. I was buried in financial stress, emotionally overwhelmed, and barely holding the pieces of my life together.

And underneath it all… the ground was shifting. In both of us.

I didn’t see it then, but she was at the end of her rope, too. That last conversation wasn’t nothing. It was everything. A quiet ending to a story I didn’t know had reached its final chapter.

And just like Mount St. Helens, nothing was left the same.

I felt a shift in my heart.

I Wish I Had Seen Her More Clearly

I wish I had known more about what was going on inside of her. I wish I had asked better questions. Made more room. I wish I had been further along in my trauma therapy—healed enough to be able to see beyond my own wounds, to recognize hers.

But I wasn’t.

And I didn’t.

And now, I carry that truth with me. Not as shame—but as part of my story.

If wishes were… well, you fill in the blank.

A Parent’s Heart Doesn’t Expire

As a parent, I worked tirelessly to love my children—to provide for them, support them emotionally, mentally, and physically. My children were my world.

In many ways, they still are.

I’m grateful that two of my adult children are still in my life. I cherish them. I laugh with them. I continue to walk with them through their grown-up lives. But there’s a piece of my heart that aches for the one who is no longer close.

Estrangement doesn’t erase the love I have for her. It doesn’t undo the years of bedtime stories, scraped knees, school projects, whispered prayers, and whispered dreams.

It just changes the shape of everything.

They’re adults now. None of them need me to remind them to pick up their clothes, do their homework, or eat their vegetables. They no longer need my full devotion—just my steady love and quiet support, the kind you give from a distance when the doors are closed.

And I’m learning to accept that.Not without grief.Not without tears.But with open hands.

Because even if they’re not in my daily life, they’ll always be in my heart.

The Aftermath Is Quiet

What followed was silence. Darkness. A landscape that no longer made sense. The terrain of our relationship, once so full of color and connection, was buried under emotional ash.

At first, the devastation is completely surreal.

You look around at all the fallout, stunned, praying it’s just a nightmare.Begging for someone—or something—to wake you up.

But no one does.

Because it’s real.

Then comes the part where every morning feels like a test of hope.You go to sleep praying that maybe tomorrow the view will be different. Maybe today will be the day she calls. Maybe today the text will come. Maybe an email. Anything.

I remember waking up every morning with a lump in my throat and a silent wish in my chest:Let time rewind.Let me try again. Let me say the right thing. Let me notice more. Let me love better.

But time doesn’t rewind. It moves forward. And we have no choice but to move forward with it—wounded, waiting, and somehow still hoping.

And yet… like Mount St. Helens, something still stands.

It’s not what it once was, but it’s not gone. Life continues, even in the aftermath. Wildflowers bloom in ash. Trees find roots in ground once scorched.

Hope finds a way.

I Am Still Learning to Walk This Terrain

I still grieve. I still long for what was. But I’ve stopped blaming myself for not being perfect. And I’ve stopped waiting for the mountain to look the way it used to.

Instead, I’m learning to walk in this new terrain—with grace, with humility, and with a deeper compassion for what I didn’t understand then.

Learning to Speak Again—With Clarity

Through therapy, I’ve learned new tools to help me manage high anxiety and stress. I’ve learned how to slow down. How to pause and really listen—not just to the words, but to the heart behind them.

I’ve learned that we all have different perspectives, and that doesn’t make one of us wrong. It just means we’re human. And different. And worthy of being heard.

One of the biggest lessons for me has been clarity—learning to say what I mean, and mean what I say. For years, I tended to be vague. I expected others to read between the lines or understand my silence. I’ve realized now that communication doesn’t work that way—not in families, not in friendships, and certainly not in the middle of pain.

I’m learning to speak more clearly every day.

It’s ironic, in a way. I’ve spent my life teaching my voice students the value of clarity in speech and tone—how to articulate, how to breathe, how to connect meaningfully with an audience. And now, I see that it’s time for me to practice what I teach.

Clarity of speech isn’t just a vocal technique. It’s a way of honoring the people I love. Of reducing confusion. Of making sure nothing important gets left unsaid.

No more guessing games.

No more assuming others know what I mean.

I’m learning to speak with purpose.

And maybe… that’s part of the healing, too.

The New Terrain I Walk

All of these new tools—pausing, listening, clarifying, grounding myself—they’re part of the new terrain I now walk. They weren’t part of my toolkit before the eruption. They’re not always easy to use. Old habits die hard. I still stumble.

But I remind myself:The paths I used to take before the eruption no longer exist.The face of the earth I once knew has changed.

And that’s not always a bad thing.

There’s a reason people choose to live near volcanoes. The view is beautiful. The soil is rich—perfect for planting, for growing, for starting something new. But you never take it for granted.

Because the volcano isn’t dormant. It’s active. And people shift.

One day they’re here. The next, they’re gone.

That’s why it matters to plant wisely. To speak clearly. To love deeply.To use the right tools in our relationships—especially with family.

Let’s remember to plant something in the fertile soil that’s strong enough to withstand the blast…Even if it changes the terrain.

💬 Reflection Question:

What tools are you learning to use in the aftermath of your own eruption?And how are you choosing to grow in the new terrain?

#StrangelyEstranged #ReshapedByFire #Estrangement #EstrangementWithAdultChild#ParentalEstrangement #MountStHelens #HealingAfterEstrangement #TraumaRecovery#ComplexPTSD #FaithInHardPlaces #SilentEstrangement #EmotionalGrowth#ClarityInCommunication #TherapyJourney #VolcanicMetaphor #HopeInAshes #GraceInTheGrief