When they don’t come back: living with estrangement

I’ve lost count of how many parents say this to me, often quietly, almost as if they’re not sure they’re allowed to still feel it: “I thought by now something would have changed.” Not dramatically. Not perfectly. Just something. A message. A softening. A sign that the door isn’t completely closed.

But the weeks turn into months, and the months stretch into years, and still nothing comes. No reply. No shift. No indication that things are moving at all. And this is the part that no one really prepares you for. Not the argument. Not the rupture. Not even the early days, where everything feels raw and immediate.

It’s the long, quiet after that catches people off guard. The part where life carries on around you, but something fundamental remains unresolved.

The myth that time will fix it

We tend to live with a quiet belief that time will sort things out. That distance will bring perspective. That space will allow emotions to settle and people to return with more understanding, more capacity, more willingness to repair. 

And sometimes that’s true. But sometimes, they don’t come back.

And when that happens, it can feel deeply disorienting. Because you’re not just grieving what’s already happened. You’re grieving what you believed was still possible. The conversation you thought you’d have. The moment of reconnection you imagined. The future where things made sense again.

There’s a particular kind of ache in losing something that hasn’t actually happened yet, but feels almost inevitable.

A loss without an ending

Estrangement sits in a space that doesn’t have a clear cultural or emotional script. When someone dies, there are rituals. There are words people know how to say. There is, at least, an acknowledgement that something significant has been lost. With estrangement, the person is still alive, still somewhere in the world. Still living a life you are no longer part of.

This is what psychologist Pauline Boss (1999) described as ambiguous loss – a loss without closure, without certainty, without a clear ending. Unlike bereavement, where there is an acknowledged finality, ambiguous loss leaves the mind and body searching for a resolution that never quite arrives.

And that uncertainty is hard to live with because part of you knows something has changed, but another part keeps scanning for signs that it might change back. So you find yourself holding grief and hope at the same time.

Why it's so hard to “let go”

That tension can be exhausting. It can leave you feeling as though you should be further along by now, as though you should have found a way to accept it or make peace with it. But this doesn’t move in a straight line.

From an attachment perspective, the bond between parent and child is one of the most powerful relational ties we have. John Bowlby’s attachment theory (1969) highlights how humans are biologically wired to seek closeness, maintain connection, and repair ruptures when they occur. Mary Ainsworth’s later work (1978) further demonstrated how these attachment patterns shape how we respond to separation and loss.

So when that bond is disrupted, especially without explanation or resolution, your system doesn’t register it as finished. It stays alert. It keeps looking. It keeps hoping. That’s why the thoughts return, why certain days land harder and why even the least possibility can pull you straight back in. It’s not because you’re stuck. It’s because your attachment system hasn’t had the chance to settle.

Living in the in-between

Over time, many parents notice themselves moving between two internal states.

There are moments where hope rises again. You might find yourself wondering whether this birthday might be different, whether enough time has passed, and whether reaching out now would land differently. You replay conversations, searching for understanding, trying to make sense of what happened.

And then there are moments where something in you wants to shut it all down. Where the weight of hoping becomes too much, and you pull back to protect yourself.

This back-and-forth can feel confusing, even frustrating. But in the context of ambiguous loss (Boss, 1999), it makes sense. When there is no clear ending, the mind continues to move between holding on and letting go. Most people move between these two places. It’s not an inconsistency. It’s a response to uncertainty.

The quiet impact on everyday life

Estrangement doesn’t just sit in the background. It shows up in ordinary moments:

• someone asks about your children, and there’s a pause
• a family event comes around, and something feels missing
• you go to share something, and remember you can’t

There can be a particular kind of loneliness in this experience. Not necessarily because people around you aren’t kind or supportive, but because ambiguous loss is less understood and less visible than other forms of grief. Without a shared language or social recognition, much of it gets carried internally.

Getting through the moments that hit hardest

There are times when it all comes rushing back in, birthdays, anniversaries, unexpected reminders, or days when your system simply feels more exposed. In those moments, it can help to focus less on solving anything and more on steadying yourself.

That might begin with something very simple: bringing your attention back to the present moment. Feeling your feet on the ground. Noticing your breath. These kinds of grounding responses can help regulate the nervous system when it’s activated by emotional stress. It can also help to name what’s happening internally.“This is one of those moments.” Not the whole story. Just this moment.

You might notice when your mind begins to loop, replaying conversations or imagining outcomes and gently interrupt that cycle, even briefly. Not by forcing the thoughts away, but by recognising that you’ve been here before.

And on the days when it feels heavier, it can matter who you let into that space. Speaking to someone who understands, or simply allowing yourself not to carry it entirely alone, can make a difference. None of this takes the pain away, but it can make it more manageable.

What healing looks like when nothing changes

Over time, the question often shifts from "How do I fix this?" to something more honest: "How do I live with this if it doesn’t change?"

And that’s where healing can feel like the wrong word, because healing here isn’t about resolution. It isn’t about reaching a point where it no longer matters. It’s about finding a way to live alongside something that may remain unresolved.

Research into ambiguous loss (Boss, 1999) suggests that adaptation, rather than closure, is often the key. This involves learning to tolerate uncertainty, making space for conflicting emotions, and gradually rebuilding a sense of stability even without answers.

That might mean allowing grief to move, rather than trying to contain it. Noticing when hope becomes something that drains you, rather than sustains you. Beginning slowly, to let your life expand again, even with this still present.

Staying connected in a different way

One of the quieter shifts that can happen is in how the relationship is held. It doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t stop mattering. But it changes form. From something lived out in real time, to something carried internally.

From an attachment perspective, this can be understood as maintaining an internal connection, even when external contact is no longer possible (Bowlby, 1969). The bond doesn’t vanish; it becomes something you carry rather than something you actively live.

This might look like holding memories without being overwhelmed by what’s missing. Allowing yourself to feel love without needing it to be returned in that moment. Finding a way to keep that connection present, without it preventing you from living your own life.

This isn’t about letting go. It’s about holding on differently.

Becoming a different kind of parent

You don’t stop being a parent because contact stops, but you may need to become a different kind of one. One who holds love without regular contact. One who respects boundaries they didn’t choose. One who learns to live with uncertainty rather than resolve it. That isn’t giving up. It’s adapting.

How therapy can help

Experiences like this can be difficult to carry alone, particularly because of the layers involved: grief, confusion, hope, anger, and love, all existing at once.

Therapy can offer a space where these different experiences don’t need to be simplified or pushed away. It can help you make sense of what’s happening internally, especially when your attachment system feels activated and unsettled.

Working with a therapist can also support you in developing ways to regulate those moments when the emotional intensity spikes, and in finding steadiness that isn’t dependent on the situation changing.

In the context of ambiguous loss, therapy often focuses less on finding answers and more on helping you live with the uncertainty in a way that feels more manageable. Not because the situation has been resolved, but because you’re no longer holding it on your own.

If you’re still in it, if you’re still waiting, still hoping, still finding your mind pulled back to it, you’re not doing this wrong. There isn’t a neat way through something like this, but there is a way to keep your footing.

To keep living. To keep finding moments of steadiness, even while part of you remains turned towards them. That’s not failure. That’s what it looks like to carry something difficult and keep going anyway.

References

Ainsworth, M. D. S. (1978). Patterns of Attachment.

Boss, P. (1999). Ambiguous Loss: Learning to Live with Unresolved Grief.

Bowlby, J. (1969). Attachment and Loss: Vol. 1. Attachment.