THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

Those who break off contact with their parents rarely receive understanding. Instead, they receive advice, demands, judgements.
As if kinship automatically meant closeness. As if blood ties could guarantee love.

‘But they're your parents.’
‘You only have this one life.’
‘Forgiveness is important.’

But hardly anyone asks:

‘What made you leave?’

Not every childhood is secure.
Some begin on shaky ground:
unreliable structures, emotional insecurity, unclear roles.

In some families, closeness comes with conditions. Love is tied to expectations.
Belonging becomes a performance.

Children adapt.
They remain silent, they smile, they wait.
They hope that someone will notice how much they are losing themselves.

And often no one notices.

Those who adapt for too long
eventually experience an inner breakdown.
It is not loud. No drama. No accusations.
Just one sentence, clear and quiet: ‘Not me anymore.’
Not out of anger, but out of exhaustion.
Not out of defiance, but out of self-preservation.
You leave. You protect yourself. You begin to save yourself – because no one else will.

Those around you often react reflexively:

‘But they're old.’
‘You'll regret it.’
‘You only have one family.’

Hardly anyone asks:

‘How many chances did you give?’
‘What was never said?’
‘What was taken from you again and again?’

Socially, breaking with one's parents is still taboo. It violates the ideal image of the family –
an image that clings to illusions
rather than the truth of individuals.

It is easy to assign blame and difficult to see the bigger picture – without relativising.
Because often there are stories behind our parents
that they themselves could never tell.
Parenting patterns that prioritised harshness over closeness.
Generations that learned to suppress feelings instead of sharing them.

Many parents do not act out of malice –
but out of an inability to love differently.
Not because they didn't want to,
but because they never learned how.
Because no one taught them how attachment works.
Because their own childhood was lacking,
which they passed on – unintentionally, but effectively.

Understanding this can help.
But it does not undo what has been experienced.
Explicability is no excuse.
Empathy is no carte blanche for renewed pain.

Forgiveness is not a command, not proof of maturity, and not a ticket back to old relationships.

Forgiveness can happen quietly.
Without contact.
Without discussion.
Without a scene of reconciliation.

It is an inner process
that does not erase guilt, but rather the attachment to what hurt.

There are parents who cannot maintain a relationship.
Who do not live the bond, but only expect it.
Who confuse presence with care.
And love with control.

Contact can exist – formally.
But without connection, without genuine interest,
without mutual choice.
And sometimes the bravest step is
to break away from this contact.

Not to punish.
But to survive.
What remains is not guilt, not hatred, not resentment.
What remains is clarity.
A quiet, powerful decision:

‘I choose myself.’

And from this choice, something new grows:
A different understanding of family.
A different measure of closeness.
A different image of love.

Conclusion:

A relationship is not an obligation, but a decision and work on both sides.

Those who leave have not failed.
They have made a decision.
For themselves. For peace. For dignity.

Because blood ties do not oblige anyone to anything
if they are not supported by a relationship.