Midwinter, Seaford Beach

“To stand at the edge of the sea… is to understand eternity a little.” — Rachel Carson

December. I go to the beach to be close to the grey sea and sky, to breathe the salt air, to lose my thoughts in the sound of boots crunching on pebbles and the rhythmic wash of waves on waves. Everything is grey: the sea, the sky, the feeling in my bones. It is far too warm for this time of year, but there is a reassuring bite to the wind. I wrap my scarf tightly around my neck and I walk and walk, letting the air and water blow away some of the heaviness, welcoming in the pale coastal light as it clears away the mental clutter. The sea is a thick slab of pewter, edged with sea foam.

Few people talk about the grief of estrangement. I think the word itself is problematic, sounding too formal, final and rigid (also: “strange”) rather than being the stop-gap, varied collection of experiences that it usually is. I prefer the word ‘distance’, which feels more fluid, leaving space for possibility. In the last few years the debate around adult child estrangement has been largely polarised into an internet culture war between hurt grown up children, and ageing parents who are unable to take any responsibility for their part in the rupture. Attempts at discourse tend to quickly unravel into side-taking, further abuse and victim blaming, and all nuance is lost. I’m not sure how helpful any of it is. There is a lack of softness on both ‘sides’ which I have been a party to at times in the past (I am only human) and which doesn’t leave much room for change.

I don’t encourage anyone to cut ties with family. Ordinary difficulties in relationships are worth working through, families are messy, people are flawed and some people do not have the emotional capacity to be accountable or to meet others where they stand. With that said, distance from a parent is too often dismissed as a fad. I will say categorically that no one walks away from a parent as an option of first choice: estrangement is always a last-ditch effort to put an end to an emotionally intolerable situation. The dysfunction is typically projected at the person who, unable to tolerate sustained mistreatment, may have no other choice but to walk away.

It is its own particular form of grief to lose someone you love while they are still alive, and to be blamed for the bewildering loss yourself. Two things I have found to be true: grief is always love with nowhere to go, and it is often the people we love the most who hurt us the most. We may grieve not only what we have lost, but the version of ourselves who was conditioned to believe that we had to earn what should have been fully and freely given. My experience is not that uncommon. As many as around 1 in 4 people are currently estimated to be estranged from one or several members of their family of origin. In an age of generational inequality, broken social contracts and divided belief systems, it is perhaps a sad but inevitable outcome that large numbers of people are dealing with this reality, especially around this time of year, when emotions are under a lens and the nights are long and dark. If you are among them, please know that you are not alone.

While we openly grieve other forms of loss, distance from a parent is still wrapped in taboo, even shame. Dealt with quietly and often in isolation. I spiral through layers of grief, sadness, anger and acceptance, going between the smaller, egoic sides of myself, which are there to protect me, and the more expansive spiritual sides, which are there to guide me. I have learned that telling the truth comes with a high price. I don’t have any neat answers, and am no expert. I try to make peace with things as they are.

We are living in times that sap us. Honestly I’m a little cautious of anyone who doesn’t admit to feeling tired and brittle at the moment. By mid-afternoon there is a softness to this wild edge today, a strange peace and gentleness to the quality of the light as the year slows down towards the still point of the solstice. The horizon is obscured by a thick, whitish-grey band of mist and in the haze I can just make out the distant, spectral turbines of the offshore wind farm. I reach the end of the beach and feel a pull to keep going, up the steep chalk track over the hills and on to the undulating white cliffs of the Seven Sisters, which Robert Macfarlane once described as “hung sheets”.

I reach the crest of the hill and find a dip where the faded brown ghosts of summer wildflowers quiver and tremble in the wind. I sit down and close my eyes, let my breath soften and settle, pull my knees up close and wrap my arms around them. How I have had to mother myself these past years. The land is quiet. A fine spray of rain blows in, landing in specks on my cheeks and forehead, fresh and lovely like little kisses. I feel small and still, looking out at the beauty and mystery of the sea, which is big enough to hold and transform everything.

When I open my eyes the sky is still grey, but a little lighter. My heart is soothed by the subtle blue-green hues of the seascape, colour of my son’s eyes. A single gannet bobs and dives in the water and a few beams of golden sunlight have tunneled diagonally through the clouds on the horizon, pooling in luminous silver puddles on the surface of the sea.

I reflected on whether to publish this piece or just to write it for myself, as I have done in journals a thousand times before. In the end I prefer to be honest, and I am tired of carrying it all around. On my birthday recently I felt sad as I watched the leaves blowing from the oak tree outside my bedroom window, I worried about going through life weighed down by all this heavy stuff, how there is a lot of talk of shedding and letting go at the end of this year, and how I don’t want to end up bitter and resentful, or going through life with some kind of victim story. That does not end well.

I will always love my mum, and always wish that things were different. There is much I have consciously left out here but I will say that I keep hope in my heart, and that true reconciliation takes effort from both sides. This year has felt like more than I can manage at times and it is all a lot to grapple with on top of raising children, making ends meet, living through times of profound and radical transformation and cascading systems collapse, etc. I have my ups and downs, but my kids keep me buoyant, and on my better days, I hope that they will not have to heal from this pain I never asked to carry. That means something.

In life, we get the cards we are dealt. It’s up to us what we decide to do with them. Back along the beach, the dark sweep of the hills rises inland, coloured with twinkling houses and dim orange streetlights and the road to home. How lucky I am to have a family waiting there for me, the holidays to look forward to, a chance to walk my own path.

Wishing all a peaceful and merry midwinter season. Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and for all the support this year. See you in ‘26. Love Caroline x