I had a few days in a row where I saw quite a few foxes. I felt quite bonded to them. I was savouring each moment I saw one. It felt like a gift. The first one I’d seen on a road near our house. A few days later I saw it had been killed. It was brutal. I won’t go into details. With all the brutal images we see on a daily basis I think we are all used to consuming death… feeling the weight of the consumption in our hearts. This fox, this image of brutality stayed with me for at least a week. I grieved this little fox. And I realised I grieved this fox more than I grieved my grandmother.
Grief is complicated.
My grandmother had been essentially comatose for around a year, so in many ways I had already processed this. Though truth be told my reaction, or lack thereof, has been the same throughout that year.
It sounds heartless, I know. It feels uncomfortable to talk about. So why am I? Why would I share this piece of me, that so easily welcomes in judgement?
Because I have been repeatedly shamed for my lack of a relationship already, and I want to speak to it.
Because my relationship with my grandmother has always been complicated.
Because over the last 10 years my contact with her had waned to such a point it fit the definitions of (extremely) low contact. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a slow realisation of who she was, the damaging and negative impact she had on my life, my self-worth and very specifically… my relationship with my dad. Those of you who know me, know that that relationship did not need any fuel to be added… it is a relationship that has been through hell and back and I realised on the way back that my grandmother enjoyed poking the fires, the embers… to see if it would relight. That was when I started to take conscious steps away from her. And that was a very long time ago.
I was shamed for it over and over… I recently became aware that almost every response I have had over the last decade when I speak to this with new people is to tell me “but they are family!” or “You’ll regret it when they die”. And I want to firstly say that going low-contact or no-contact with family is one of the most painful things someone can do… so if they are telling you this is what they have done, you do not need to remind them of their losses. It is a deep wound that they feel over and over again whilst grieving what they wished for, and grieving the reality of what they had.
And so I share this part of me to speak to those who are worried… if I go low-contact, will I regret it when they die?
And of course, like grief, the answer is complicated.
What is death? What is grief? One thing that I felt deeply in my body during this time was that I had already grieved her. I grieved the soft comfort that people spoke of when they spoke about their grandmothers, when mine would be so cold. I grieved that she stopped hugging me when I was around 10 years old. I grieved that when my mom abandoned me as a child, my grandmother stepped in – and even referred to herself as a motherly figure… and then one day she simply stopped. I grieved the secondary maternal abandonment. I grieved the lack of maternal lineage and wisdom in my family as my sister and I muddled our way in our single-dad-parent household. I grieved a feminine presence throughout my life. I grieved the version of her that would light up and smirk when she had successfully fanned a fight between my dad and I. I grieved every aspect of who I wished she had been for me throughout my life. Until I finally had nothing to grieve. And years later, probably a decade later, she died.
As I reflected on this death… on this cycle… on grief… I felt deeply that, for some of us, the grief has already been processed… sometimes a long time before the death itself. And that actually, as I sat in this processing, I acknowledged the peace I have felt over the last decade.
I felt immense gratitude for the previous version of me, who had been so brave… to choose peace, even when shamed… to choose peace within the relationship with my dad… within myself.
The thing is… for various reasons (or perhaps various depths of the same reason) I have been low, or no-contact with my dad, my mom and my grandmother for much of my life. I have tried to work on each relationship, I have forgiven all of them, I have held supportive spaces for all of them, and my responses are very much an indication of how they met that… did they meet me with love, or did they meet me with hurt…? And based on that, I chose the distance at which I would love them.
And in my grandmother’s case… that meant from a distance.
And almost without fail… the response from people is that I would regret it, that I should try harder… that I shouldn’t make such a fuss… that she did her best. That my childhood wasn’t her fault. As someone who has repeatedly mended and ended fractious family relationships, I can hand-on-heart tell you that two things can be true: someone can do their best, and if it continues to cause you pain you don’t need to accept it.
Family doesn’t get a free pass to hurt you simply because they are family. When I lived like that it brought abuse into my life: into my relationships, into myself, into my work in how I would abuse myself to meet a deadline or some other measure of external validation. This hurt from family is so often foundational to the hurt across our lives. And it is ok to choose peace.
As I reflected on my grandmother’s passing, I was struck by the physicality of grief… how it isn’t just an emotion we feel but something that settles deeply into our bodies. For me, this grief has shown up as a tightness in my chest, an anxiety that ebbs and flows. I’ve found that intentional breathing and gentle movement help release some of that tension… almost like coaxing the body into letting go of grief bit by bit.
For those processing grief, it’s so helpful to pause and check in with where it’s showing up physically. Sometimes, it’s a weight in the chest or a knot in the stomach… other times, it’s a subtle restlessness or tightness in the shoulders. Breathing deeply into those areas or even just taking a slow walk can help process these feelings. The body, in its own way, needs a moment to release what it’s holding.
And in my case, I’ve felt the fragmentation of my family lineage acutely in these moments… the unresolved stories, the generations that chose disconnection. This grief, then, is also about breaking cycles, choosing peace, and allowing myself to let go rather than carry that family pattern forward. The boundaries I’ve chosen allow me to feel a sense of release, an end to a cycle that brought more hurt than love.
One of the biggest realisations for me has been that grief doesn’t have to look the way others expect it to. There’s a great deal of shame in grieving differently, especially when it’s for a family member. Society tells us that grief should be profound and tear-filled, but the truth is, grief is as unique as the relationships we have. It can mean feeling deeply or even feeling very little.
I want to encourage anyone who feels out of place in their grief to trust their process.
Whether you’re grieving actively or simply noticing that there isn’t as much there as you thought, it’s all valid. Sometimes, you’ve already done the hard work of letting go, even years before the loss. Journaling, quiet reflection, and having firm boundaries with family members who might insist on their way of grieving can help you honour your own experience.
The freedom to grieve your way allows you to release any shame or blame others might try to place on you. You can let go of what society says grief “should” look like and instead give yourself space to process it authentically, even if that means it’s quieter, or feels like acceptance rather than sorrow.
As I sat with this, and as I grieved my dear little fox, I found myself reflecting on the natural cycles of life… how nature has a quiet way of teaching us about impermanence. In the same way that everything has its season… a time to bloom and a time to return to the earth… grief, too, has its own seasons. There is a time to hold on and a time to let go, each with its own purpose. For me, choosing peace was part of letting go, a way to embrace life’s impermanence and release the weight of unresolved relationships.
So here I am, after all these years, grateful for the peace that I chose for myself… grateful for the younger version of me who made the brave decision to step away, despite the voices telling me I would regret it. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t always look the same, and that’s okay. It’s a gift to find peace with these decisions, to mourn in your own way, and to let go of the weight of others’ expectations.
In the end, I found that allowing myself the compassion to grieve my way - without judgment - was one of the most healing choices I made. Grieving is deeply personal.
Sometimes, it means grieving a relationship long before the person is gone. And when the death comes, you can face it with acceptance and grace. Choosing peace is always a path worth walking, even in the face of judgment, even when others say you’ll regret it. It’s okay to grieve in your own way, to honour both the love and the distance, and to hold on to the peace you’ve earned.
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