Living in the Gray
A reflection on love, loss, and the spaces in between
It’s been a challenging season of change.
We learn, we grow, we thrive… and then we learn and grow all over again.
Sometimes it feels like the wheel spins faster than our ability to catch our breath.
Sometimes life feels like A LOT.
And because of those challenges, I’ve paused.
I needed to.
I needed time to tend to my health and healing (I write more about that in Dysautonomia Journal), and I needed space to feel emotionally grounded again before coming back to you.
Now that I’m here, I come with more clarity, more steadiness, and more truth.
I also arrive at this space with just as many questions as you likely have; questions about healing, about connection, about what it means to keep loving through uncertainty.
And if you’re anything like me, you’ve opened the news and seen yet another headline about a celebrity going “no contact” with a parent.
It can feel like an epidemic.
Like a trend.
Like a collective spiral of pain, hurt, and anger that keeps looping with no end in sight.
But estrangement isn’t a trend.
It isn’t catchy.
It isn’t glamorous.
It’s deeply human.
Estrangement feels deeply inhumane at times, and yet…
that and yet is the gray.
Maybe estrangement is the only way an adult child knows how to speak up.
Maybe it is their loudest voice, the one that finally forces us, as parents, to hear the anger, to acknowledge the disappointment, to absorb the pain they may have been carrying long before words were ever available.
This is the ache of the gray space: that both the wound and the reason for the wound can exist at the same time.
My own adult child had a privileged life by many accounts, and yet… that doesn’t mean there weren’t felt sadnesses, disappointments, or moments where I missed the mark.
It’s possible I didn’t live up to my child’s expectations, just as my own parents didn’t always live up to mine.
The truth is this:
We all do our best with what we know, with the tools we have, with the emotional vocabulary we were taught, with the wounds we were still trying to outrun.
None of us get it perfectly right.
None of us escape without leaving some imprint on the people we love.
I was forty years old before I could truly name my emotions.
Imagine moving through life without knowing the language for how you feel and then having a child grow up inside that same emotional fog.
I have deep empathy for my adult child because of this. I understand now in ways I simply could not back then.
I am a much healthier, more grounded, and genuinely happier human today than I was years ago, back when I was only playing at being happy, performing wellness instead of living it.
I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
But I know it now.
I’ve learned to work hard at holding all of this duality, to live in the gray rather than the harsh edges of black and white.
Nothing is ever as simple as it seems from the outside.
There are always deeper meanings, hidden layers, quieter truths beneath the surface of our choices.
And that complexity matters because people are complex, relationships are complex, cycles are complex.
Life is complex.
Recently, I had a conversation with a man I’ve known for a few years. Only now, after time, trust, and quiet courage, did he share that he is estranged from his children.
We sat over coffee, two people living very different lives but carrying the same invisible ache.
Compassion moved between us.
Sadness, too.
A thread of something unspoken yet completely understood tied us together.
I said softly, “I understand that pain. I’m living in that space too.”
And in that moment, I could feel something shift.
Because every time I share the truth of my own estrangement, every time someone else allows themselves to share theirs, it’s as though a small measure of the pain releases its grip.
Each conversation lets a bit of hurt leave my body, making room for something softer.
Something deeper.
Something loving.
Holidays only intensify this truth.
They can feel like holding pain in, tightening every emotion just to make it through.
And then a gentle hug, whether from a friend or even from a stranger’s kindness, can feel like letting it all go.
For a moment, we breathe again.
For a moment, we remember we’re human.
For a moment, the ache has somewhere to rest.
And in those moments, love becomes the thing that rises.
It whispers its way through the places that feel hollow or bruised.
It steadies me.
And it carries a message, one I hope somehow reaches my adult child across whatever distance exists between us.
“I’m here.
I’m still here.
I’m not going anywhere.”
That whisper is my anchor.
My offering.
My way of staying connected to a love that doesn’t vanish even when contact does.
These days, I’m learning to ask myself gentler questions, the ones that help me rebuild from the inside out.
What is your anchor?
Who is your anchor?
Where is your safe space when the world feels unbalanced—when life tilts, when grief swells, when the holidays press on the most tender parts of you?
And what does living in the gray space mean for you?
For me, it means allowing curiosity without needing the answers.
It means allowing sadness without folding it into anger.
It means letting myself soften, letting myself breathe, letting myself be free of the pain long enough to create pockets of joy, even in the midst of estrangement.
Living in the gray has become my survival, my grounding, my way forward.
I’ve learned to live beyond estrangement, and in the process, I’ve discovered parts of myself I didn’t know were possible to access while carrying this kind of loss.
I am still learning.
Still growing.
Still becoming.
And if this resonates with you, please know this:
You are not alone.
My adult child was my best friend, the one who truly saw me.
I share this song with you because it carries the sound of profound love and joy.
Lava from Disney has always reminded me of the kind of love that endures across distance, silence, and time.
The kind of love that doesn’t disappear, even when connection does.
I lava you.
💌 Author’s Note — From My Heart
If these words resonated, I’d love to hear from you.
Your reflections remind us that none of us have to navigate estrangement alone.
If this piece spoke to you, please click the heart, leave a comment, or share it with someone who may need these words today.
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Thank you for being part of this tender, courageous space as we learn to live beyond estrangement.
With love and gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who helps people move through estrangement, grief, and life transitions with resilience and hope. As a leadership and empowerment coach, she guides others to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and build lives rooted in authenticity and purpose.
If you’d like support on your journey, she warmly invites you to connect with her at Twisted Tree Coaching