The Grief - and the Freedom - of Giving Up Hope
- susymcphee0
- Jul 28
- 4 min read
There’s a particular kind of grief that doesn’t come with black clothes or funeral flowers. It doesn’t come all at once, or even loudly. It just… settles in. Quietly. Slowly. And then refuses to leave.
I have a friend whose mum once told her siblings that she’d be very happy never to clap eyes on my friend ever again. It was one of those comments said with a casualness that made it all the more devastating, as my friend did not see it coming. It wasn't shouted in a moment of fury. It wasn't even said to my friend's face. It was just handed over to someone else like a shrug. Like a verdict. As if my friend were a package she’d chosen to return, no further explanation required.
It's not easy admitting that. There's something profoundly shaming in coming out and admitting to the world that your mum has rejected you so unequivocally, and I thought long and hard before plucking up the courage to write about it. As a celebrant, I work with what is often thought of as legitimate grief: the grief of a family mourning a loved one. I feel like an imposter for even mentioning my own grief alongside theirs.
But it is grief just the same. Specifically, it's called disenfranchised grief. The loss isn’t through death, but through rejection or abandonment, and it often leaves people feeling isolated, misunderstood, or even - especially - ashamed of their sorrow.
It's a grief I've been carrying for years. And if I'm going to be honest (and what's the point of writing a blog if I gloss over the messy bits?), I owe it to myself as well as to you to tell my story authentically, warts and all. And if there's the tiniest chance that telling it might make even just one person feel a bit less alone - a little bit more seen - then it will have been worth it.
At the time my mum said it, I couldn’t really take it in. I told myself she didn’t mean it. That one day she’d change her mind. That if I could be more understanding, more patient, more whatever-she-needed, we’d be okay.
It’s taken me a long, long time to realise - she did mean it.
And it has broken something in me that I didn’t know could break.
But it wasn’t my heart exactly. Not at first. It was the illusion. The illusion that if I just kept trying, things could be fixed. That if I kept showing up with honesty, good intentions and a heart that tried, she'd love me back in the way I needed. That if I made myself smaller, or shinier, or more successful, she’d eventually see me.
And then I read these words by Cody Bret, which are about a couple breakup, but landed so directly in the centre of my chest that it took my breath away:
You didn’t break her heart. You broke the illusion she had of you. She kept painting over the red flags with brighter colours. She kept hoping that if she just loved harder, you’d eventually meet her there. But the truth is ... you were never coming.You just let her carry it all … until she finally put it down.
I carried it for years. All the effort. The explanations. The justifications. The hope.
But she was never coming.
And now that I’ve finally put it down, I’m left with a grief that doesn’t look like other griefs. It's not about losing what I had. It's about accepting that I never really had it. That the version of her I built in my head - kind, maternal, delighted by me - was mine alone.
This kind of grief doesn’t get flowers or sympathy cards. It’s not tidy or socially acceptable. People want to fix it. Or they want to look away. Because what kind of mother doesn’t love her daughter?
But here's what I know now.
Not all grief is about death. Some of it is about letting a hope die quietly, with as much love as you can muster. Some of it is about walking away from the version of the story that only you were living.
And some of it - even when it still aches - is freeing. Because now I don’t have to wonder any more. Now I can stop fighting for survival in a war I didn't start. Now I can choose the person I should have chosen all along.
And that—broken heart notwithstanding—is me.
If this kind of grief resonates with you—the quiet kind, the complicated kind—you’re not alone. As a celebrant I often meet people navigating exactly this: the loss of what might have been, as much as what was.
If you ever need someone to help find the words you can't, I’m here. No pressure. Just space for your story.
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