When letting go isn’t death but it still hurts.
Part II of The Unraveling series. You can read part one here: Teine Lelei: The Weight of Perfection
Not all grief wears black.
Some of it walks around in the shape of people who are still alive…
just no longer part of your life.
This is the grief no one prepares you for,
the one that comes without funerals, shared meals or collective comfort.
I remember the first time I felt it.
The ache of watching someone I once trusted,
once confided in,
slowly shift from “safe” to “stranger.”
There were no sharp words,
no dramatic ending.
Just a slow erosion of trust.
A pattern of moments where things didn’t line up…
and I kept brushing it off until the damage was too loud to ignore.
I still held hope.
For clarity.
For honesty.
For some kind of mutual understanding.
But what I got was silence.
And that silence spoke volumes.
There is a unique kind of heartbreak that comes from betrayal.
Not just from friends but family too.
Especially the ones you thought would never…
and yet, they did.
I’ve learned that some people are good people.
But they’re not good friends.
And they’re not always safe places.
Even love doesn’t guarantee loyalty.
I used to believe that if I loved someone enough,
forgave enough,
stayed gracious enough,
that it would be enough.
But what I have learned is this:
You can love someone deeply and still need distance to heal.
Sometimes, walking away is not bitterness.
It is boundary.
I did not want to become someone who hardened my heart.
I still don’t.
But I also can’t keep shrinking myself to preserve peace that was only ever one-sided.
I thought grieving the dead was hard.
But grieving the living?
(the ones who chose to walk away,
or worse, stayed in your life
but twisted the truth of who you are)
that’s a different kind of pain.
I had to stop trying to prove my heart
to people who were committed
to misunderstanding it.
I had to stop expecting apologies
from people who don’t believe
they did anything wrong.
And I had to stop bleeding for relationships that wouldn’t even acknowledge the wound.
That doesn’t mean I hate them.
It means I no longer abandon myself to keep them comfortable.
I was sitting in a CBT session after Ivan passed.
She asked if I had anyone to confide in…
and it hit me. I didn’t.
The people I once trusted
had already shown their colours.
Things I shared in confidence
found their way back to me.
It pushed me further into isolation
not just from others,
but from the version of me
that used to feel safe being seen.
For a season, the sessions gave me room to breathe.
But over time, God became the only place I exhaled fully.
The One who listened without judgement.
Held without condition.
And stayed, even when others left.
History doesn’t equal covenant.
We can be bound to people out of memories,
out of shared hardship,
out of loyalty…
but if God is gently untying the cord,
no amount of history will justify staying.
I once heard someone say,
“Sometimes God removes someone not because they are bad,
but because the season is.”
And I think that was true for her…
and for me.
I remember my late husband saying once, with gentle concern,
“She’s not a good friend.”
I didn’t want to believe him.
But now I think he saw what I couldn’t yet name
the quiet jealousy,
the passive pull away,
the way I was shrinking in her presence and calling it humility.
By then, I had already bound myself to her.
Not because of who she was…
but because of who she used to be.
Because of what we walked through.
Because of the years.
But the truth is… sometimes God asks us to lay down even long-standing relationships.
To release the familiar.
To honour what was, while refusing to be held hostage by what no longer is.
And that is its own kind of mourning.
Mourning not just the loss of a friend,
but the version of me who stayed too long.
The one who thought loyalty meant silence.
Who believed love meant self-abandonment.
Who didn’t know you could bless someone’s journey and still choose a different road.
There are no bouquets for this kind of grief.
No formal farewells.
Just healing.
Boundaries.
A quiet turning of the page.
I think of David and Saul
how David honoured a man who betrayed him,
but still kept his distance.
He refused to touch what God had once anointed,
but he also refused to stay where he was no longer safe.
And I think of Jesus and Judas
how love and betrayal sat at the same table.
And how even the Son of God didn’t chase someone who chose to leave.
Some people are like doves.
They draw near gently.
They carry peace with them.
They don’t try to fix you,
they just sit beside the ache.
Others are like parrots.
They mimic.
They repeat.
Sometimes they even mean well…
but they don’t always know when silence is more healing than words.
Grief will show you who the doves are.
And who the parrots have always been.
There came a point where I had to make peace with what I couldn’t change.
The story wasn’t mine to fix
only to bless and release.
I still carry questions.
But not bitterness.
I still remember the friendship
the good parts, too.
But I no longer grieve what I hoped it would be.
This is what boundaries do.
They don’t erase love.
They protect it from bleeding into places it was never meant to be stretched.
Forgiveness doesn’t always look like reconciliation.
Sometimes it is choosing to bless someone from a distance
and release them to God.
Not as punishment but as protection.
For them.
And for you.
So if you’re in that space now:
grieving someone still alive,
quietly holding the weight of what never got resolved
I want you to know this doesn’t make you weak.
It makes you human.
And healing?
It is still available here.
Even in this quiet kind of grief.
Even in the absence of closure.
Even when the “what ifs” and “why nots” still linger in the silence.
God sees even this.
He tends to what others overlook.
And He’s still crafting glory out of grief.
He saw Hagar in the wilderness.
He sees you now.
And the well has not run dry.
A Prayer for the Quiet Grievers
Father,
You see the wounds no one else does.
The ones that linger not from death, but from distance.
From silence.
From fractured trust and broken connection.
Help me to forgive without forcing reconciliation.
To release without resentment.
To grieve without growing bitter.
Thank You for the friendships that taught me
even the painful ones.
And thank You for being a God who never leaves when others do.
Remind me that healing isn’t proof of strength
it’s proof of grace.
And as I lay down what was,
help me to make room for what will be.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
Eden & Ashes 